953 


UC-NRLF 


AFTER  THE  BALL 


AND   OTHER  POEMS. 


NORA    PERRY. 


BOSTON: 

JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

LATE  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co. 
I875- 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874, 

BY  JAMES    R.    OSGOOD   &   CO., 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


TO   MY    MOTHER. 


M191883 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

AFTER  THE  BALL 9 

THE  LAST  RIDE 15 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  ROSE 21 

COINCIDENCE 28 

ARMIDA 38 

NORTH  AND  SOUTH 44 

MAGDALENA 52 

AN  AUTUMN  BOUQUET 59 

THE  BLACK  SHAWL 62 

JANE.     • 68 

PEPITA          .        .       ' ,        .    .     . 74 

THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  LILIES 78 

IN  AN  HOUR .        .        .85 

UPHARSIN         ....        .        .        .        .        .  88 

YESTERNIGHT .        .        .92 

AN  ACQUAINTANCE.        .        .        .        .        .        .       .  96 

HER  SECRET 98 

JENNY       ........        .        .  rOi 

Two  VIEWS  . 103 

HAUNTED.        . I06 

HESTER  BROWNE 108 


VI  CONTENTS. 

DESTINY no 

Loss  AND  GAIN 113 

HOMELESS 115 

LA  SIRENE .        .  -117 

TYING  HER  BONNET  UNDER  HER  CHIN         .        .        .  119 

THAT  WALTZ  OK  VON  WEBER'S 122 

HALF  AN  HOUR 127 

POLLY    .               133 

BESS  AND  BEN 138 

BLANCHE'S  CHATEAUX 143 

APPLE-BLOSSOMS 148 

IN  JUNE 152 

ANOTHER  YEAR 155 

SOME  DAY  OF  DAYS 158 

CECILY 160 

RIDING  DOWN 165 

SOMEBODY'S  HUMMING-BIRD 169 

SYLVIA'S  SONG •     .        .        .176 

THORNS 178 

"AND  A  LITTLE  CHILD  SHALL  LEAD  THEM"    .        .        .180 

WHAT  MAY  BE 182 

CIRCE 184 

MY  LADY          . 186 

AND  NOW  I  SIT  DOWN  DAILY  WITH  A  FACE    .        .       .  l88 

MISUNDERSTOOD       .        .........  189 

OUT  OF  THE  WINDOW        .....        .       .       .  191 


AFTER   THE    BALL, 


AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


AFTER   THE   BALL. 

THEY  sat  and  combed  their  beautiful  hair, 

Their  long  bright  tresses,  one  by  one, 
As  they  laughed  and  talked  in  the  chamber  there, 
After  the  revel  was  done. 

Idly  they  talked  of  waltz  and  quadrille ; 

Idly  they  laughed,  like  other  girls, 
Who  over  the  fire,  when  all  is  still, 

Comb  out  their  braids  and  curls. 

Robes  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace, 
Knots  of  flowers  and  ribbons  too, 


IO  AFTER   THE    BALL. 

Scattered  about  in  every  place, 

For  the  revel  is  through. 


And  Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white, 
The  prettiest  nightgowns  under  the  sun, 
Stockingless,  slipperless,  sit  in  the  night, 
For  the  revel  is  done. 

Sit  and  comb  their  beautiful  hair, 

Those  wonderful  waves  of  brown  and  gold, 
Till  the  fire  is  out  in  the  chamber  there, 

And  the  little  bare  feet  are  cold. 

Then  out  of  the  gathering  winter  chill, 
All  out  of  the  bitter  St.  Agnes  weather, 


AFTER   THE    BALL.  I  I 

While  the  fire  is  out  and  the  house  is  still, 
Maud  and  Madge  together, — 

Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white, 

The  prettiest  nightgowns  under  the  sun, 
Curtained  away  from  the  chilly  night, 
After  the  revel  is  done, — 

Float  along  in  a  splendid  dream, 

To  a  golden  gittern's  tinkling  tune, 
While  a  thousand  lustres  shimmering  stream, 
In  *a  palace's  grand  saloon. 

Flashing  of  jewels  and  flutter  of  laces, 
Tropical  odors  sweeter  than  musk, 


12  AFTER    THE    BALL. 

Men  and  women  with  beautiful  faces 

And  eyes  of  tropical  dusk,  — 

And  one  face  shining  out  like  a  star, 

One  face  haunting  the  dreams  of  each, 
And  one  voice  sweeter  than  others  are, 

Breaking  into  silvery  speech,  — 

Telling,  through  lips  of  bearded  bloom, 

An  old,  old  story  over  again, 
As  down  the  royal  bannered  room, 

To  the  golden  gittern's  strain, 

Two  and  two,  they  dreamily  walk, 
While  an  unseen  spirit  walks  beside, 


AFTER   THE    BALL.  13 

And,  all  unheard  in  the  lovers'  talk, 

He  claimeth  one  for  a  bride. 


O  Maud  and  Madge,  dream  on  together, 

With  never  a  pang  of  jealous  fear  ! 
For,  ere  the  bitter  St.  Agnes  weather 
Shall  whiten  another  year, 

Robed  for  the  bridal,  and  robed  for  the  tomb, 

Braided  brown  hair  and  golden  tress, 
There  '11  be  only  one  of  you  left  for  the  bloom 
Of  the  bearded  lips  to  press,  — 

Only  one  for  the  bridal  pearls, 

The  robe  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace, 


14  AFTER    THE    BALL. 

Only  one  to  blush  through  her  curls 

At  the  sight  of  a  lover's  face. 

O  beautiful  Madge,  in  your  bridal  white, 

For  you  the  revel  has  just  begun  ; 
But  for  her  who  sleeps  in  your  arms  to-night 
The  revel  of  life  is  done  ! 


But,  robed  and  crowned  with  your  saintly  bliss, 

Queen  of  heaven  and  bride  of  the  sun, 
O  beautiful  Maud,  you  '11  never  miss 

The  kisses  another  hath  won  ! 


THE   LAST   RIDE. 

THERE  was  red  wine  flowing  from  the  flagons, 
The  jewel-crusted  flagons  slim  and  tall, 
And  a  hundred  voices,  laughing,  jesting, 
And  a  hundred  toasts  ringing  down  the  hall ; 
For  the  baron  held  a  feast  at  the  castle, 
The  gay  young  baron,  lithe  and  tall. 

From  the  daTs-steps  the  red  drums  beating, 
And  the  horns  and  the  silver  trumpets  blowing, 
And  the  quick  sweet  rasping  of  the  fiddles, 
Set  the  dancers  in  the  dance-room  a-going  ; 


l6  THE    LAST    RIDE. 


And  all  through  the  palace  ran  the  music, 
And  all  night  the  red  wine  was  flowing. 


And  the  baron  led  the  wassail  and  the  dance, 

The  gay  young  baron,  lithe  and  tall, 

With    gallant    smiles    and    jests    for    the    lovely 

women  guests, 

Till  the  cock  crew  athwart  the  castle  wall ; 
But  amid  the  lovely  faces  rising  out  of  ruffs  and 

laces, 
One  face  for  the  baron  shone  fairer  than  them  all. 

He  had  stolen  from  the  drinking  and  the  dancing, 
He  was  standing  in  the  doorway  at  her  side  ; 
He  was  praying,  he  was  pleading  and   entreat 
ing, 


THE     LAST     RIDE.  I/ 

A  suit  she  coquetted  and  denied 

He  was  praying,  he  was  pleading  and  entreating, 

When  the  blast  of  a  bugle  far  and  wide 

Rang  its  clear  silver  treble  in  the  court-yard, 
Three  times  three,  for  a  sharp  battle-call ; 
And  the  voice  of  a  trooper  hoarsely  shouted, 
"  Ho,  barons,  for  the  king,  one  and  all !  " 
Round  and  round,  over  hill  and  over  valley, 
Far  and  wide  rang  the  sharp  battle-call. 

Round  and  round  rang  the  news  of  the  rising, 
The  rising  of  old  Coventry  that  night  ; 
And  the  barons,  one  and  all,  at  the  bugle's  bat 
tle-call, 
Mustered  forth,  fifty  strong,  for  the  fight. 


1 8  THE     LAST     RIDE. 

Corslets  ringing,  feathers  flinging,  pennons  swing 
ing, — 
O,  it  must  have  been  a  spirit-stirring  sight ! 

Women's  faces  grew  as  white  as  the  rose,  — 
The  white  rose  of  York  upon  each  breast  ; 
Red  lips  in  that  moment  lost  their  blooming, 
Gay  hearts  in  that  moment  lost  their  jest. 
But  out  of  fifty  faces,  sorrow-saddened, 
There  was  one  face  sadder  than  the  rest. 

Eyes  that  a  moment  since  disdained  him, 
Lips  that  were  laughing  and  denying, 
Heart  that  coquetted  with  its  wooing, 
Now  on  the  wooer's  breast  is  lying  ; 


THE     LAST    RIDE.  19 

While  the  bugle  rings  its  blast,  and  the  troop 
ers  rattle  past, 
Over  hill  and  over  valley  flying,  flying. 

And  the  baron  rides  last,  but  the  baron  rides  fast, 

Over  hill  and  over  valley,  rides  away  ; 

With  a  smile  upon  his  face,  and  with  a  gallant 

grace, 

As  if  he  rode  to  tournament,  or  a  hunting  holiday. 
But   in    the   early   dawning,  in   the  gray  of  the 

morning, 
In  the  front  of  the  fight,  his  white  plumes  play. 

And  in  the   early  dawning,  in  the  gray  of  the 

morning, 
The  red  field  is  won  ere  the  day  's  half  begun  ; 


20  THE    LAST     RIDE. 

And  the  cavaliers  are  shouting,  at  the  round 
heads  routing, 

Till  over  hill  and  valley  comes  creeping  up  the  sun  ; 

Then  the  shouts  and  the  cheers  turn  suddenly 
to  tears, 

For  there  on  the  field,  his  brief  race  run, 

White    and    still    in    the    dawning    of  the    wild 

autumn  morning, 

White  and  still,  in  the  chill  of  the  new-risen  day, 
While  the   roundheads  are   flying,  the   hero  lies 

dying, 

Who  so  late  rode  straight  in  the  front  of  the  fray  ; 
With  a  smile  upon  his  face,  and  with  a  gallant 

grace, 
As  if  he  rode  to  tournament  or  a  hunting  holiday. 


THE   ROMANCE   OF   A   ROSE. 

IT  is  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago 
Since  the  day  the  Count  de  Rochambeau  — 
Our  ally  against  the  British  crown  — 
Met  Washington  in  Newport  town. 

'T  was  the  month  of  March,  and  the  air  was  chill, 
But,  bareheaded,  over  Aquidneck  hill, 
Guest  and  host  they  took  their  way, 
While  on  either  side  in  grand  display 

A  gallant  army,  French  and  fine, 

Was  ranged  three  deep  in  a  glittering  line  ; 


22  THE    ROMANCE     OF    A     ROSE. 

And  the  French  fleet  sent  a  welcome  roar 
Of  a  hundred  guns  from  Conanicut  shore  ; 

And  the  bells  rang  out  from  every  steeple, 
And  from  street  to  street  the  Newport  people 
Followed  and  cheered,  with  a  hearty  zest, 
De  Rochambeau  and  his  honored  guest 

And  women  out  of  the  windows  leant, 
And  out  of  the  windows  smiled  and  sent 
Many  a  coy  admiring  glance 
To  the  fine  young  officers  of  France. 


And  the  story  goes  that  the  belle  of  the  town 
Kissed  a  rose  and  flung  it  down 


THE     ROMANCE     OF     A     ROSE.  23 

Straight  at  the  feet  of  De  Rochambeau  ; 
And  the  gallant  Marshal,  bending  low, 

Lifted  it  up  with  a  Frenchman's  grace, 
And  kissed  it  back  with  a  glance  at  the  face 
Of  the  daring  maiden  where  she  stood, 
Blushing  out  of  her  silken  hood. 

That  night  at  the  ball,,  still  the  story  goes, 
The  Marshal  of  France  wore  a  faded  rose 
In  his  gold-laced  coat,  but  he  looked  in  vain 
For  the  giver's  beautiful  face  again. 

Night  after  night,  and  day  after  day, 
The  Frenchman  eagerly  sought,  they  say, 


24  THE    ROMANCE     OF    A    ROSE. 

At  feast  or  at  church  or  along  the  street, 
For  the  girl  who  flung  her  rose  at  his  feet. 


And  she,  night  after  night,  day  after  day, 
Was  speeding  farther  and  farther  away 
From  the  fatal  window,  the  fatal  street, 
Where  her  passionate  heart  had  suddenly  beat 

A  throb  too  much,  for  the  cool  control 

A  Puritan  teaches  to  heart  and  soul ; 

A  throb  too  much  for  the  wrathful  eyes 

Of  one  who  had  watched  in  dismayed  surprise 

From  the  street  below :   and  taking  the  gauge 
Of  a  woman's  heart  in  that  moment's  rage, 


THE    ROMANCE    OF   A   ROSE.  25 

He  swore,  this  old  colonial  squire, 
That  before  the  daylight  should  expire, 

This  daughter  of  his,  with  her  wit  and  grace, 
Her  dangerous  heart,  and  her  beautiful  face, 
Should  be  on  her  way  to  a  sure  retreat, 
Where  no  rose  of  hers  could  fall  at  the  feet 

Of  a  cursed  Frenchman,  high  or  low: 
And  so  while  the  Count  De  Rochambeau, 
In  his  gold-laced  coat,  wore  a  faded  flower, 
And  awaited  the  giver  hour  by  hour, 

She  was  sailing  away  in  the  wild  March  night 
On  the  little  deck  of  the  sloop  "  Delight "  ; 

2 


26  THE    ROMANCE    OF    A    ROSE. 

Guarded  even  in  the  darkness  there 
By  the  wrathful  eyes  of  a  jealous  care. 

Three  weeks  after,  a  brig  bore  down 

Into  the  harbor  of  Newport  town, 

Towing  a  wreck,  —  'twas  the  sloop  "  Delight :' : 

Off  Hampton  rocks,  in  the  very  sight 

Of  the  land  she  sought,  she  and  her  crew, 
And  all  on  board  of  her,  full  in  view 
Of  the  storm-bound  fishermen  over  the  bay, 
Went  to  their  doom  on  that  April  day. 

When  Rochambeau  heard  the  terrible  tale, 

He  muttered  a  prayer,  for  a  moment  grew  pale, 


THE    ROMANCE    OF    A    ROSE.  2  7 

Then,  " Mon  Dieu  /"  he  exclaimed,  "so  my  fine 

romance, 
From  beginning  to  end,  is  a  rose  and  a  glance ! " 

A  rose  and  a  glance,  with  a  kiss  thrown  in  ; 
That  was  all,  —  but  enough  for  a  promise  of  sin, 
Thought  the  stern  old  squire,  when  he  took  the 

gauge 
Of  a  woman's  heart  in  that  moment's  rage. 

So  the  sad  old  story  comes  to  a  close : 
'T  is  a  century  since,  but  the  world  still  goes 
On  the  same  base  round,  still  takes  the  gauge 
Of  its  highest  hearts  in  a  moment's  rage. 


COINCIDENCE. 

A  PRETTY  place  it  is  to  see, 
Rose-hedged,  and  fairly  held  in  fee 
By  larches  and  the  linden-tree. 

The  roses  fall,  the  daisies  droop, 
And  all  about  the  ancient  stoop 
The  eager  sparrows  soar  and  swoop. 

We  hear  the  robins  chirp  and  call, 
We  see  the  almond-blossoms  fall, 
The  peaches  'neath  the  garden  wall. 


COINCIDENCE.  2 

But  not  a  human  voice  is  heard 
To  break  the  voice  of  bee  or  bird, 
And  not  a  human  hand  has  stirred 

The  almond-blossoms,  as  they  fall, 
The  peaches  'neath  the  garden  wall, 
For  years  around  this  ancient  "  Hall." 

The  hand  that  latest  plucked  the  rose, 
Or  broke  the  blushing  almond-blows, 
Or  stirred  the  fruit  from  its  repose, 

The  feet  that  latest  pressed  the  ground, 
The  voice  that  latest  echoed  round, 
Is  in  what  sleep  enchanted  bound  ? 


3O  COINCIDENCE. 

Upon  a  far-off  foreign  street, 
Where  only  foreign  voices  greet, 
Are  wandering  the  alien  feet. 

And  foreign  fruits  and  foreign  flowers 
Are  plucked  within  their  Southern  bowers 
By  English  hands  in  summer  hours. 

The  voice  that  once  sang  prayer  and  praise 
In  English  chapels,  now  doth  raise, 
In  Tuscan  gardens,  Tuscan  lays. 

But  wearily  the  footsteps  fall, 
And  palace  pleasures  sadly  pall 
Upon  the  alien  from  the  "  Hall." 


COINCIDENCE.  31 

In  Tuscan  gardens  far  away 

She  hears  the  lark's  delightful  lay, 

She  sees  the  sparrows  dart  and  play. 

In  Tuscan  palaces  she  hears 

A  voice  from  out  the  distant  years, 

That  floods  her  heart  in  sudden  tears. 

In  Tuscan  twilights  she  doth  miss, 

Amid  her  royalty,  the  kiss 

That  once  thrilled  all  her  soul  with  bliss. 

She  '11  never  lose  that  fond  caress, 

Although  another's  lip  may  press 

The  cheek,  the  mouth,  the  golden  tress. 


32  COINCIDENCE. 

O  Love  that  was  so  sorely  tried, 

Yet  parted  in  an  hour  of  pride, — 

Where  shall  the  bridegroom  find  his  bride  ? 

Ah  !  ne'er  on  any  lover's  breast 
Will  that  proud  head  find  utter  rest, 
Or  go  she  east  or  go  she  west. 

None  knoweth  this  so  well  as  she 
Who  wanders  there  beyond  the  sea, 
Searching  in  vain  the  golden  key 

Which  openeth  the  golden  gate, 
The  portal  of  a  visioned  Fate 
Where  Consolation  sits  in  state. 


COINCIDENCE.  33 

What  consolation  doth  she  seek, 

With  such  a  burning,  fevered  cheek, 

And  haughty  brows  that  shame  the  meek  ? 

Within  ambition's  lofty  gains 

She  strives  to  dull  Love's  tender  pains ; 

All  other  comfort  she  disdains. 

The  laurel  crown  is  forming  fast, 
She  feels  its  royal  weight  at  last, 
And  thinks  the  triumph  slays  the  past. 

O  woman  heart,  ye  '11  find  again 
The  burning  fire,  the  tender  pain, 
For  Love  will  never  thus  be  slain  ! 


34  COINCIDENCE. 

The  hour  approached,  —  the  moment  came  ! 
An  idle  guest  pronounced  a  name,  — 
And  flashed  anew  the  sentient  flame ; 

Flashed  through  and  through  her  haughty  calm, 
And  scorched  the  laurel's  potent  charm, 
Dispelled  for  aye  its  transient  balm. 

"  O  Love  ! "  she  cries,  "  return  to  me  ! 
I  'd  barter  all  the  world  for  thee ! 
O,  once  again  to  hear,  to  see, 

"To  feel  that  tenderest  embrace, 
His  breath  across  my  happy  face, 
My  head  to  find  the  resting-place 


COINCIDENCE.  35 

"  It  found  in  those  delightful  hours 

When  Love  was  crowned  with  fairer  flowers 

Than  ever  bloomed  in  Tuscan  bowers ! " 

Was  Love  so  mighty?     Could  it  be 
Through  miles  of  space  across  the  sea, 
This  tender  cry,  this  passion-plea, 

Was  heard  by  him  on  English  ground, 
As  one  may  hear  a  sudden  sound, 
And  stand  in  wondering  silence  bound  ? 

For  thus  above  the  rise  and  fall 

Of  music  in  a  festive  hall, 

He  heard  a  wild,  impassioned  call. 


36  COINCIDENCE. 

And  in  a  strange  bewildering  trance 
He  lost  the  gay  saloon,  the  dance, 
He  lost  the  countess'  tender  glance, 

And  stood  within  a  garden  shade, 
Where  larches  and  the  linden  made 
A  well-remembered  garden  glade. 

It  was  the  hour,  the  very  same, 
When  in  her  Tuscan  home  there  came 
A  sudden  presence  fine  as  flame. 

"  My  Love,"  she  cries,  "  he  comes  for  me ! 
My  Love,  my  Love,  he  waits  for  me  ! " 
Then  turned  her  face  towards  the  sea, — 


COINCIDENCE.  37 

Her  face  with  awe  and  rapture  blent, 
And  slowly,  slowly,  downward  bent 
Her  weary  head,  as  if  she  leant 

Against  some  tender  sheltering  breast. 
So  ended  all  her  weary  quest, 
So  entered  she  upon  her  rest. 

And  while  from  Tuscany  there  sped 
To  England's  shores  the  tidings  dread, 
That  she,  the  laurel-crowned,  was  dead, 

Friends,  clustering  round  an  English  tomb, 
Spoke  softly,  awe-struck  in  the  gloom, 
Of  this  coincidence  of  doom. 


ARMIDA. 

/  TO  be  brought  at  her  feet 
As  a  falcon  brings  a  bird  ; 
/  to  be  troubled  or  stirred, 

Whenever  I  chance  to  meet 

A  face  that  happens  to  grow 
The  lily  and  rose,  on  a  skin 
Satin-textured  and  thin, — 

/  to  be  brought  so  low ! 

/  to  care  whether  her  eyes 
Seek  another,  or  shine 


ARMIDA.  39 

As  I  look,  back  to  mine, 
Telling  their  laughing  love-lies  ! 

* 

Or  if  her  hand  touches  my  hand, 

Ringless,  and  gloveless,  and  fair, 
As  smiling  she  passes  me  there, 
Where  grimly  unsmiling  I  stand  ! 

Last  night,  in  dancing,  she  grazed 
My  foot  with  the  hem  of  her  gown, 
And  there  I  stood  looking  down 

At  the  silk  as  if  I  were  dazed. 

And  when,  with  that  hand's  white  wonder, 
She  lifted  the  shawl 


4O  ARMIDA. 

Which  had  hindered  my  fall, 
How  I  inwardly  cursed  my  blunder ! 

And  I  cursed  her  under  my  breath, 
As  she  smiled  on  me  there, 
For  I  knew,  false  and  fair, 

She  would  lead  men  on  to  the  death 

That  lurks  in  a  woman's  art ; 
Worst  of  all  a  woman  like  this, 
With  her  smile  like  another's  kiss, 

And  her  cold  unoccupied  heart. 

All  the  time  I  was  cursing  her  there 
Her  hand  was  over  my  arm, 


ARMIDA.  41 

And  her  face  shining  calm 
Out  of  its  brown  chestnut  hair  ; 

Shining  serenely  and  still, 

As  we  paced  down  the  room, 

And  entered  the  gloom 
Of  the  garden,  led  by  her  will. 

Poor  fool !    I  remember  e'en  yet 

How  the  heliotrope  scent 

Wafted  up  as  we  went, 
And  the  smell  of  the  crushed  mignonette, 

As  through  the  dim  alleys  we  strolled 
In  the  night  soft  and  still, 


42  ARMIDA. 

Until  suddenly  over  the  hill 
Lightning  flashed  and  low  thunder  rolled. 

What  madness  then  clouded  my  brain  ? 

For  I  kissed  her  fears  into  rest, 

As  she  clung  to  my  breast 
In  the  tumult  of  wind  and  of  rain. 

'T  was  the  madness  of  folly  and  wine  ; 
For  what  did  I  care, 
Though  I  knew  she  was  fair, 

When  I  knew  she  could  never  be  mine  ? 

Mine  !  though  she  knelt  to  me  here 
With  that  hand  for  a  gift, 


ARMIDA.  43 

Not  a  hand  would  I  lift 
To  gather  it  ever  so  near. 

I  shall  never  be  fooled  like  the  rest, 
So  do  not  class  me  with  those 
Who  would  kneel  for  the  rose 

She  wears  on  her  beautiful  breast; 

Nor  speak  to  me  now  of  her  power : 

I  tell  you  't  was  wine, 

Youth's  folly  and  wine, 
That  made  me  her  slave  in  that  hour! 


NORTH   AND   SOUTH. 

FORT   ADAMS. 
I.— 1860. 

SHE  leaped  up,  laughing,  all  alone 
Upon  the  rampart's  sodden  stone, 

And,  laughing,  hid  behind  the  mouth 
Of  the  great  cannon,  facing  south. 

"  Ah  !  will  he  find  me  here  ? "  she  said, 
Then  hushed  her  laugh  and  shook  her  head. 


NORTH   AND    SOUTH.  45 

"  Nay,  will  he  miss  me  from  the  rest, 
And,  missing,  care  to  come  in  quest  ?  " 

But  dancing  eyes  deride  the  doubt, 
The  deprecating  lips  breathe  out, 

And  waiting,  waiting  all  alone, 
Upon  the  rampart's  sodden  stone, 

She  looks  across  the  cannon's  mouth, 
The  silent  cannon  facing  south  ; 

Across  the  great  ships  riding  down 
In  stately  silence  to  the  town ; 

Acros.3  the  sea  just  where  the  mist 
Melts  all  the  blue  to  amethyst, 


46  NORTH    AND     SOUTH. 

From  whence  the  wind  o'er  all  the  sails 
Blew  soft  that  day  its  southern  gales. 

But  white-sailed  ships  that  rode  the  sea, 
Nor  dusky  cannon's  mouth  saw  she, 

With  those  young  eyes  whose  wistful  gaze 
Went  dreaming  thwart  the  purple-  haze  ; 

Instead,  beyond  the  white-sailed  ships, 
Beyond  the  cannon's  dusky  lips, 

Beyond  the  sea  just  where  the  mist 
Melts  all  the  blue  to  amethyst, 

The  tall  palmettoes  darkly -rise 
Before  her  dream-enchanted  eyes, 


NORTH    AND     SOUTH. 

And  waiting,  waiting  all  alone 
Upon  the  rampart's  sodden  stone, 

In  dreams  she  stands  beneath  the  shade 
Of  Southern  palms,  —  this  little  maid, 

Whose  morning  face  and  tender  eyes 
Took  all  their  hue  from  Northern  skies. 

And  standing  thus  enchanted  there, 
Within  her  castle  of  the  air, 

The  rippling  tide,  that  sinks  and  swells, 
Comes  to  her  ear  like  wedding  bells  ; 

And  through  her  castle's  airy  halls, 
From  room  to  room  a  low  voice  calls, 


48  NORTH    AND     SOUTH. 

And  calling,  calling,  near,  so  near, 
That  half  in  dream  and  half  in  fear 

She  turns,  and  swift  her  vision  flies 
Before  the  vision  of  her  eyes ; 

For  some  one  scales  the  rampart  mound, 
And  some  one  laughs:  "Ah,  truant,  found! 

And  face  to  face  she  meets  him  there, 
Her  fairy  castle's  lordly  heir  ! 

So,  North  and  South,  the  pine  and  palm, 
United,  in  that  summer  calm 

Of  idle  summer  days  they  stand, 

By  prosperous  gales  and  breezes  fanned. 


NORTH     AND     SOUTH.  49 


II.— 1862. 

No  summer  guests  with  curious  gaze 
Stroll  now  beneath  the  "covered  ways," 

And  gayly  laugh  and  speculate 
Upon  the  old  Fort's  useless  state. 

Where  last  year's  lonely  arches  rang 
With  idle  voices,  girls  who  sang 

Their  airy  songs,  or  sent  their  call 

From  sodden  stone  or  rampart  wall, 
3  D 


5O  NORTH     AND     SOUTH. 

There  echoes  now  the  martial  tread 
Of  soldier  sentinels  instead. 

And  they  who,  sailing  through  the  mist, 
Came  hither  for  a  lover's  tryst, 

And  vowed  next  year  again  to  stand 
Thus  face  to  face,  thus  hand  to  hand, 

Upon  the  old  Fort's  mouldering  mound, — 
Where  find  they  now  a  trysting  ground  ? 

Upon  Manassas'  bloody  plain 

One  keeps  a  tryst  with  death  and  pain  ; 

And  one,  grown  old  before  her  years 
Of  youth  have  fled,  with  anguished  tears 


NORTH    AND     SOUTH.  51 

Wrung  from  despair,  far  out  of  reach 
Of  love's  last  touch,  of  love's  last  speech, 

By  Narragansett's  rushing  tide 
Walks  desolate,  —  a  widowed  bride. 


MAGDALENA. 

I  WOULD  have  killed  you  if  I  could, 
I  would  have  killed  you  where  you  stood, 

Magdalena. 

I  would  have  killed  you  if  a  breath 
Freighted  with  some  insensate  death, 

Magdalena, 

Had  power  to  breathe  your  life  away, 
To  so  exhale  that  rose-hued  clay, 

Magdalena, 


MAGDALENA.  53 

That  it  had  faded  from  my  sight 
Like  roses  in  a  single  night, 

Magdalena. 

I  would  have  killed  you  thus,  and  felt 
My  will  a  blessed  doom  had  dealt, 

Magdalena. 

But  who  could  smite  that  golden  head, 
Or  mar  that  young  cheek's  perfect  red, 

Magdalena  ? 


Or  pierce  that  bosom's  tender  white, 
And  watch  those  dark  eyes  lose  their  light, 

Magdalena  ? 


54  MAGDALENA. 

Yet  would  to  God  that  you  were  lying 
Where  last  year's  autumn  leaves  are  dying, 

Magdalena ! 

Ah,  would  to  God !   then  I  had  been 
Unconscious  of  your  scarlet  sin, 

Magdalena ! 

Then  I  had  never  known  the  stain 
Which  purples  all  my  life  with  pain, 

Magdalena ; 

Which  robs  me  of  my  beauteous  bride, 
And  leaves  me  with  my  stricken  pride, 

Magdalena. 


MAGDALENA.  55 

Ah,  when  I  thought  your  soul  as  white 
As  the  white  rose  you  wore  that  night, 

Magdalena ! 


I  wondered  how  your  mother  came 
To  give  you  that  sin-sullied  name, 

Magdalena. 

Did  some  remorseless,  vengeful  Fate, 
In  mockery  of  your  lofty  state, 

Magdalena, 

Because  you  wore  the  branded  name, 
Fling  over  you  its  scarlet  shame, 

Magdalena  ? 


56  MAGDALENA. 

There  is  no  peace  for  you  below 
That  horrid  heritage  of  woe, 

Magdalena. 

There  is  no  room  for  you  on  earth, 
Accursed  from  your  very  birth, 

Magdalena. 

But  where  the  angels  chant  and  sing, 
And  where  the  amaranth-blossoms  spring, 

Magdalena, 


There 's  room  for  you  who  have  no  room 
Where  lower  angels  chant  your  doom, 

Magdalena. 


MAGDALENA.  57 

There's  room  for  you,  the  gate's  ajar, 
The  white  hands  beckon  from  afar, 

Magdalena. 

And  nearer  yet  they  stoop,  they  wait, 
They  open  wide  the  jasper  gate, 

Magdalena. 

And  nearer  yet, — the  hands  stretch  out, 
A  thousand  silver  trumpets  shout, 

Magdalena. 

They  lift  you  up  through  floods  of  light, 
I  see  your  garments  growing  white, 

Magdalena. 
3* 


58  MAGDALENA. 

And  whiter  still,  too  white  to  touch 
The  robes  of  us  who  blamed  you  mitcJi, 

Magdalena. 


AN  AUTUMN  BOUQUET. 

BRILLIANT  asters  purple  and  gold, 
Milk-white  lilies  parded  and  pale, 

With  their  great  white  petals  rolled 
Fold  on  fold  like  a  nun's  white  veil. 

Sprays  of  geranium,  leaf  and  flower, 
Rose-geranium  in  its  bloom : 

No  strong  white  lily  can  overpower 
The  rose-geranium's  faint  perfume. 

In  the  centre  a  flash  of  flame, 
Slender  blood-red  starry  slips, 


6O  AN    AUTUMN    BOUQUET. 

With  their  tender  tropical  name, 
Only  made  for  tropical  lips. 


Then  a  girdle  of  brown  and  gold, 
Maple-leaves  in  their  splendid  death, 

Starred  and  spotted  with  golden  mould, 
And  odorous  of  their  dying  breath. 

This  was  the  gift  that  into  my  hand 
Dropped  at  parting  yesterday; 

And  the  giver  said,  "Will  you  understand 
What  I  have  said  in  my  bouquet?" 

O,  your  asters  purple  and  gold, 

I  read  their  mystical  meaning  well : 


AN     AUTUMN     BOUQUET.  6 1 

They  symbol  the  world  with  their  purple  and  gold, 
The  gay,  gay  world  with  its  glittering  spell ! 

And  the  lilies  of  peace  are  set  beside 
The  royal  purples  of  pomp  and  power ; 

The  lilies  of  peace  and  the  purple  of  pride  ; 
Geranium-blooms  for  love  in  its  flower. 

But  the  fiery  human  heart  burns  on, 

Like  the  starry  slips  with  their  tropical  name ; 

The  fiery  heart  burns  on  and  on, 
A  feverish,  flickering  flame. 

And,  girdling  all  these  pleasures  and  pains, 
These  pleasures  and  passions,  hopes  and  fears, 

The  solemn  splendor  of  Death  remains, 
To  quench  Life's  laughter  and  tears. 


THE   BLACK   SHAWL. 

SEVEN  years  ago  it  was  red 
As  the  cactus  that  shed 
On  your  bosom,  last  night, 
Its  warm  crimson  light. 

The  prettiest  shawl  in  the  world 
I  thought  it  was  then,  with  its  curled 
Silken  fringe,  and  the  order 
Of  its  prim  narrow  border. 

Seven  years  it  did  duty ; 
But  its  bellehood  and  beauty 


THE     BLACK    SHAWL.  63 

Long  since  passed  away, 
As  old  and  passe. 


What  hopes  and  what  fears, 
What  laughter  and  tears, 
It  has  long  ago  seen 
From  its  rich  scarlet  sheen ! 

Seven  years  its  hue  could  compare 
With  the  flower  that  you  wear  ; 
Seven  years  it  bloomed,  and  then  dyed 
Its  soft  scarlet  pride. 

No  more  like  the  cactus  you  wear, 
But  black  as  the  waves  of  your  hair ; 


64  THE    BLACK    SHAWL. 

In  place  of  the  colors  so  fine, 
Death's  sad,  solemn  sign. 


Every  thread  of  its  rose-colored  youth 
Steeped  in  the  black,  bitter  truth 
Which  comes  to  us  all 
From  the  grave  and  the  pall. 

But  stay,  —  the  colors  of  Death 

Are  not  only  for  dying  breatfy : 

Let  them  float  over  life  and  its  pride, 

Over  hopes  that  have  sickened  and  died, 

Over  temples  that  bleed  under  flowers 
In  terrible  moments  and  hours, 


THE    BLACK     SHAWL.  65 

When  the  thorn  presses  down 
Through  the  fresh  laurel  crown, 


Pressing  out,  drop  by  drop, 
Without  measure  or  stop, 
The  red  costly  wine 
From  the  heart's  bleeding  vine. 

Over  homes  let  them  wave, 
Where  a  cold  living  grave 
Buries  peace  day  by  day 
In  its  dank  poison  clay ; 

Over  doors  where  the  want 
Of  gold  brings  a  taunt, 


66  THE     BLACK    SHAWL. 

And  small  secret  stings 
From  a  barbed  arrow  flings ; 

Over  life's  simplest  state 
Such  a  grim,  gloomy  fate, 
That  the  heart,  dumb  with  pain, 
And  too  proud  to  complain, 

Is  bitterly  hurled 
Out,  out*  on  the  world, 
With  faith  lying  dead 
As  a  corpse  in  its  bed ; 

Lying  shrouded  from  sight, 
Not  in  pure  vestal  white, 


THE     BLACK     SHAWL.  6/ 

But  in  weeds  of  despair, 
Black,  black  as  your  hair. 

Yet  memory  sits 

Where  the  black  shadow  flits, 

And  .paints  o'er  anew 

The  red  cactus  hue, 

Till  in  bright,  bold  relief 
It  stands  out  from  its  grief, 
From  its  shroud  and  its  pall, 
Like  the  soft  scarlet  shawl. 


JANE. 

SHE  came  along  the  little  lane, 

Where  all  the  bushes  dripped  with  rain, 

And  robins  sung  and  sung  again, 

As  if  with  sudden,  sheer  delight, 
For  such  a  world  so  fresh  and  bright, 
To  swing  and  sing  in  day  and  night. 

But,  coming  down  the  little  lane, 
She  did  not  heed  the  robin's  strain, 
Nor  feel  the  sunshine  after  rain. 


JANE.  69 

A  little  face  with  two  brown  eyes, 
A  little  form  of  slender  size, 
A  little  head  not  very  wise; 

A  little  heart  to  match  the  head, 
A  foolish  little  heart,  that  bled 
At  every  foolish  word  was  said. 

So,  coming  down  the  little  lane, — 
I  see  her  now,  my  little  Jane, — 
Her  foolish  heart  with  foolish  pain 


Was  aching,  aching  in  her  breast, 
And  all  her  pretty  golden  crest 
Was  drooping  as  if  sore  opprest. 


70  JANE. 

And  something,  too,  of  anger's  trace 
Was  on  the  flushed  and  frowning  face, 
And  in  the  footsteps'  quickened  pace. 

So  swift  she  stept,  so  low  she  leant, 
Her  pretty  head  on  thought  intent, 
She  scarcely  saw  the  way  she  went, 

Nor  saw  the  long,  slim  shadow  fall 

Across  the  little,  low  stone-wall, 

As  some  one  rose  up  slim  and  tall,  — 

Rose  up,  and  came  to  meet  her  there ; 
•    A  youth,  with  something  in  his  air 
That,  at  a  glance,  revealed  his  share 


JANE.  71 

In  all  this  foolish  girlish  pain, 
This  grief  and  anger  and  disdain, 
That  rent  the  heart  of  little  Jane. 

With  hastier  steps  than  hers  he  came, 
And  in  a  moment  called  her  name  ; 
And  in  a  moment,  red  as  flame 

She  blushed,  and  blushed,  and  in  her  eyes 
A  sudden,  soft,  and  shy  surprise 
Did  suddenly  and  softly  rise. 

"  What,  you  ? "  she  cried ; "  I  thought  —  they  said  — ' 
Then  stopped,  and  blushed  a  deeper  red, 
And  lifted  up  her  drooping  head, 


72  JANE. 

Shook  back  her  lovely  falling  hair, 

And  arched  her  neck,  and  strove  to  wear 

A  nonchalant  and  scornful  air. 


A  moment  thus  they  held  apart, 
With  lovers'  love  and  lovers'  art; 


Then  swift  he  caught  her  to  his  heart. 


What  pleasure  then  was  born  of  pain, 
What  sunshine  after  cloud  and  rain, 
As  they  forgave  and  kissed  again ! 

'Twas  April  then  ;  he  talked  of  May, 
And  planned  therein  a  wedding-day: 
She  blushed,  but  scarcely  said  him  nay. 


JANE.  73 

What  pleasure  now  is  mixed  with  pain, 
As,  looking  down  the  little  lane, 
A  graybeard  grown,  I  see  again, 

Through  twenty  Aprils'  rain  and  mist, 
The  little  sweetheart  that  I  kissed, 
The  little  bride  my  folly  missed  ! 


PEPITA. 

TENDER  eyes  and  a  thrilling  voice, — 
These  were  the  lures  that  led  me  on, 

Led  me  on  to  love  and  to  trust, 
Till  all  my  heart  was  fairly  gone. 

Tender  eyes  and  a  thrilling  voice  ! 

Ah,  how  tender,  ah,  how  sweet, 
Eyes  and  voice  became  to  me, 

In  the  summer  hours  we  used  to  meet !  — 

In  the  summer  hours,  in  that  summer  land, 
When  I  tended  the  vineyards  day  by  day. 


PEPITA.  75 

"  So  let  me  attend  you  from  morn  till  night, 
Pepita,  Pepita,"  he  used  to  say. 

Over  the  far  blue  hills  he  came, 

From  some  northern  clime  across  the  sea, 
An  idle  stranger  to  spy  the  land, 

So  I  looked  at  him,  —  but  he  looked  at  me 

With  a  lover's  eyes  from  the  very  first: 
When  he  spoke  to  me  his  words  were  few, 

But  his  voice  swept  through  my  heart  like  wind, 
And  the  vineyard  seemed  to  blossom  anew. 

Tender  eyes  and  a  thrilling  voice : 
Day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour 


PEPITA. 

You  held  me  fast  in  your  subtle  thrall, 
You  held  me  fast  in  your  subtle  power ! 

Tender  eyes  and  a  thrilling  voice, 
The  gentlest  manner  ever  was  worn, 

And  under  it  all  a  passionate  will, 
A  brooding  nature  set  with  scorn. 

Tender  eyes  and  a  thrilling  voice, 
Hand  of  steel  in  a  velvet  glove, 

Together  ye  Ve  wounded  me  full  sore, 
Under  the  name  and  guise  of  love. 

Tender  eyes  and  a  thrilling  voice: 
I  think  of  ye  as  I  knew  ye  first ; 


PEPITA.  77 

Kind  ye  meant  to  be  then,  I  know, — 
To  give  me  your  best  and  not  your  worst. 

Kind  ye  meant  to  be,  kind  ye  were, 

Until  God  knows  what  rose  in  your  mind, 

What  ghost  of  ill  from  your  shrouded  past 
Made  you  cruel,  who  once  were  kind. 

Tender  eyes  and  a  thrilling  voice, 
I  shall  never  see  nor  hear  ye  more  ; 

And  never  forget,  though  I  Ve  long  forgiven, 
The  hurt  that  left  me  wounded  and  sore. 


THE    GARDEN    OF    THE    LILIES. 

IT  is  the  time  of  the  lilies  ; 

Look  down  in  the  garden  there, 
At  the  white  bride-blossoms  swinging 

Bloom-censers  into  the  air ; 
At  the  white  bride-blossoms  flinging 

Their  odors  into  the  air. 

The  sky  is  a  sea  of  sapphire, 

« 

Dappled  with  purple  and  gold  ; 
White  heats  from  the  heart  of  August 
Over  the  land  are  rolled, — 


THE    GARDEN    OF    THE    LILIES.  79 

White  heats  from  the  heart  of  August 
Into  the  lilies  fold. 

Into  the  death-white  lilies, 

Down  in  the  garden  there, 
The  hundred  lilies  ringing 

Bloom-bells  in  the  ardent  air,  — 
The  hundred  lilies  ringing 

A  requiem  of  despair. 

The  days  are  a  swoon  of  silence, 

A  drowsy  dream  of  death  ; 
But  at  eve  a  wind  comes  blowing 

A  sweet  southwestern  breath  ; 
At  eve  a  wind  comes  blowing 

Up  from  a  river  of  Death. 


80  THE    GARDEN    OF    THE    LILIES. 

At  the  foot  of  the  garden  there 
It  sleeps  all  day  in  the  sun ; 

A  river  of  amethyst  veiled  with  mist, 
Till  the  swoon  of  the  day  is  done  ; 

A  river  of  amethyst  veiled  with  mist, 
Which  the  white  bride-lilies  shun. 

From  what  far  mystical  islands, 
Over  what  strange  sea-floors, 

Does  the  southwest-wind  come  blowing 
Into  these  lonely  shores  ? 

Does  the  southwest-wind  come  blowing 
An  echo  of  ghostly  oars? 

There 's  something  astir  on  the  grass, 
Just  under  the  lilies  there, 


THE     GARDEN     OF    THE    LILIES.  8 1 

A  glitter  of  white  in  the  dim  midnight, 

And  a  sudden  chill  in  the  air ; 

A  glitter  of  white  in  the  August  night, 

And  a  throbbing  thrill  in  the  air. 

The  lilies  shiver  and  sigh, 

The  lilies  murmur  and  moan/ 
With  a  tender,  tremulous  thrill, 

In  their  wild  ^Eolian  tone  ; 
A  tender,  tremulous  thrill, 

As  she  stands  there  all  alone. 

Did  she  step  from  the  lilies  down, 

A  splendid  spirit  of  bloom, 
With  a  shimmer  of  amber  tresses  flung 

Like  a  meteor  into  the  gloom  ? 

4*  F 


82  THE    GARDEN    OF    THE    LILIES. 

A  shimmer  of  amber  tresses  flung 
Into  the  midnight  gloom  ? 

Did  she  step  from  the  lilies  down, 

This  shape  of  a  womanly  grace, 
With  an  awful  beauty  shining  clear 

Out  of  her  phantom  face  ? 
An  awful  beauty  shining  clear 

From  the  light  of  her  phantom  face? 

The  murk  of  the  midnight  gloom 

With  a  pallid  radiance  glows, 
As  she  glides  like  a  meteor  down  to  the  strand 

At  the  foot  of  the  garden  close ; 
As  she  glides  like  a  meteor  down  to  the  strand 

Where  the  river  of  amethyst  flows. 


THE     GARDEN     OF     THE     LILIES.  83 

A  mystical  murmur  breaks 

From  the  waves  that  break  on  the  shore, 
And  a  phantom  boat  drops  dreamily  down 

To  the  dip  of  a  ghostly  oar ; 
A  phantom  boat  drops  dreamily  down, 

And  never  comes  back  to  shore. 

She  sits  at  the  slender  stern, 

The  queen  of  a  ghostly  realm, 
While  a  pennon  of  amber  flutters  and  floats 

Away  from  the  shadowy  helm  ; 
A  pennon  of  amber  tresses  floats 

Away  from  the  dusky  helm. 

What  is  it  she  seeks  in  the  night? 
What  ghostly  tryst  doth  she  keep 


84  THE     GARDEN     OF     THE     LILIES. 

At  the  foot  of  the  garden  there, 

While  the  earth  lies  shrouded  in  sleep, 

At  the  foot  of  the  garden  there 
What  terrible  tryst  doth  she  keep? 

O,  ask  of  the  pale  sighing  lilies, 
What  secret  of  solemn  despair 

Lies  hid  in  their  white  bridal  bosoms, 
And  lurks  in  the  chill  haunted  air,  — 

Lying  hid  in  their  beautiful  bosoms, 
What  secret  of  solemn  despair ! 


IN    AN    HOUR. 

I. 

ANTICIPATION. 
"I'LL  take  the  orchard  path,"  she  said, 

Speaking  lowly,  smiling  slowly: 
The  brook  was  dried  within  its  bed, 

The  hot  sun  flung  a  flame  of  red 

• 
Low  in  the  west  as  forth  she  sped. 

Across  the  dried  brook-course  she  went, 

Singing  lowly,  smiling  slowly; 
She  scarcely  felt  the  sun  that  spent 


86  IN    AN     HOUR. 

Its  fiery  force  in  swift  descent, 
She  never  saw  the  wheat  was  bent, 

The  grasses  parched,  the  blossoms  dried ; 

Singing  lowly,  smiling  slowly, 
Her  eyes  amidst  the  drouth  espied 
A  summer  pleasance  far  and  wide, 
With  roses  and  sweet  violets  pied. 

II. 

DISAPPOINTMENT. 
But  homeward  coming  all  the  way, 

Sighing  lowly,  pacing  slowly, 
She  knew  the  bent  wheat  withering  lay, 
She  saw  the  blossoms'  dry  decay, 
She  missed  the  little  brooklet's  play. 


IN     AN     HOUR.  87 

A  breeze  had  sprung  from  out  the  south, 

But,  sighing  lowly,  pacing  slowly, 
She  only  felt  the  burning  drouth  ; 
Her  eyes  were  hot  and  parched  her  mouth, 
Yet  sweet  the  wind  blew  from  the  south. 

And  when  the  wind  brought  welcome  rain, 

Still  sighing  lowly,  pacing  slowly, 
She  never  saw  the  lifting  grain, 
But  only  —  a  lone  orchard  lane, 
Where  she  had  waited  all  in  vain. 


UPHARSIN. 

SCENA.—  In  a  Vienna  palace  when  the  news  is  brought  of  the 
fall  of  Sebastopol. 

OVER  the  city  a  shadowy  cloud 
Floated  and  floated ;  a  gloomy  gray  shroud, 
Floating  from  cannon-shot,  gun-shot,  and  shell, 
Thicker  and  thicker  the  dense  shadow  fell. 

Into  the  palace  it  stealthily  comes, 

With  the  sound  of  the  trumpet,   the  rolling  of 

drums, 

And  the  glittering  guests  in  the  glittering  dance 
Hear  with  it  the  sound  of  the  shivering  lance  ; 


UPHARSIN.  89 

But  never  the  cries  of  the  wounded  and    dying, 
Who  drop  in  the  trenches,  or  fall  in  their  flying ; 
For  the  Redan,  the  Redan,  is  taken  at  last, 
And  Sebastopol  falters  before  the  death-blast. 

Yet  gay  in  the  palace  their  glasses  are. clinking, 

And  merry  lips  laugh  o'er  the  wine  they  are 
drinking. 

But  there  's  blood,  crimson  blood,  in  the  rose- 
rippled  tide, 

And  the  lips  that  are  laughing  are  laughing  to 
hide 

The  quiver  and  shiver  of  hearts  that  await 
But  the  sound  of  their  trumpet  to  challenge  the 
fate 


QO  UPHARSIN. 

Which  lies  in  the  splendor  of  Austria's  palace, 
Like  death  in  the  depths  of  a  rose-crested  chalice. 

O  Tyranny,  pause  in  your  soft,  silken  bower, 
And  list  to  the  wild,  throbbing  hearts  in  this  hour! 
They're   athirst,  all  athirst,   and  'tis   blood    that 

they  quaff, 
Your   blood   which   they  drink  with  that   merry, 

low  laugh ! 

And  it  drips  from  their  lips  to  the  white  marble 

floor, 
And  the  rich  silver  service  seems  dabbled  with 

gore; 
But  you  hear  not,  you  see  not:  the  laugh  and  the 

jest 
Drown  the  curse  of  the  gallant  Hungarian  guest. 


UPHARSIN.  QI 

But  the  sound  of  the  trumpet,  the  rolling  of  drums, 
Through  the  laugh  and  the  jest  to  Hungary  comes  ; 
While  "  The  Kaiser,  the  Kaiser  is  taken  at  last, 
And  Austria  yields  before  the  death-blast!" 

Is   the   cry   that   they  hear   coming   nearer   and 

nearer, 
As  the  sound  of  the  trumpet  comes  clearer  and 

clearer, 

With  the  ringing  of  Victory's  sweet  marriage-bell, 
Through  the  booming  of  cannon-shot,  gun-shot, 

and  shell. 


YESTERNIGHT. 

THE  memories  of  yesternight, 

When  in  that  swift,  bewildering  dance, 
The  pressure  of  your  hand,  your  glance, 

All  thrill  me  with  a  new  delight. 

The  music  wrapped  us  round  and  round, 
While  thus  within  the  waltz  we  whirled, 
Regardless  of  the  crowd,  the  world  ; 

The  music  wrapped  us  round  and  round. 

And,  listening  to  the  quickened  beat 
Of  hearts  that  beat  a  wilder  tune 


YESTERNIGHT.  93 

Than  'horn  and  harp  and  gay  bassoon, 
We  floated  on  with  tireless  feet 


A  thousand  odors  filled  the  air, — 
Swept  o'er  us  as  we  swept  along, 
Through  all  the  mazy  moving  throng; 

A  thousand  odors,  wondrous  rare, 

Swept  o'er  us  from  a  thousand  flowers, 
At  every  breathing  of  the  breeze, 
From  lime  and  pomegranate  trees, 

And  orange  in  the  orange  bowers. 

From  lilies  with  their  creamy  flush, 
All  splendors  of  the  splendid  rose, 


94  YESTERNIGHT. 

Musk,  moss,  and  cinnamon,  in  blows 
And  buds  of  crimson,  white,  and  blush. 


But  more  delicious  than  the  scent 
Of  Orient  shrub  or  orange-bloom, 
The  warm  and  subtly  sweet  perfume 

Which  in  your  breathing  came  and  went ; 

Your  breath,  so  soft  and  balmy  sweet, 

That  touched  my  cheek,  that  stirred  my  hair, 
That  wandered  o'er  and  o'er  me  there, 

As  faster  fell  our  flying  feet 

As  faster,  faster  on,  until 

Beyond  the  long  and  gay  saloon 


YESTERNIGHT.  95 

We  stood  alone,  beneath  the  moon, 
In  garden  alleys,  dusk  and  still. 

The  lights  are  out,  and  coldly  through 
The  deepening  dawn  the  day  begins  ; 
But  still  I  hear  the  violins, 

And  still  in  dreams  I  waltz  with  you. 


AN   ACQUAINTANCE. 

I  REMEMBER  when  first  we  met ; 

I  think  I  shall  never  forget 

The  drawing-room  in  its  curtained  gloom, 

The  amber-curtained  drawing-room, 

Which  set  you  round  like  a  frame  of  gold, 
As  out  of  the  December  cold 
You  hurried  in,  with  your  bright  blond  skin, 
A  splendid  color  from  cheek  to  chin. 

And,  sitting  down  by  my  cousin  Jane, 

You  sipped  the  foam  from  the  pink  champagne, 


AN     ACQUAINTANCE.  97 

While  over  the  wine  the  shimmer  and  shine 
Of  your  strange  eyes  kept  haunting  mine. 

You  talked  to  her,  but  you  looked  at  me  ; 
Such  a  curious  gaze,  —  what  did  you  see, 
What  did  you  trace  within  my  face, 
As  you  drank  and  talked  with  that  smiling  grace  ? 

Always  that  nonchalant  smiling  grace, 
Always  a  mask  drawn  over  the  face, 
Always  a  look  as  if  within 
You  guarded  a  secret  sorrow  or  sin. 


HER   SECRET. 

WHAT  if  I  think  of  you  once  in  a  while, 
With  a  little  blush  and  a  little  smile; 
With  a  little  blush  that  comes  and  goes 
As  the  sweet,  sweet  wind  of  memory  blows  ? 

What  if  I  picture  now  with  care 
A  tete-a-tete  and  an  easy-chair  ? 
What  if  I  make  the  picture  clear, 
By  lighting  it  up  with  a  chandelier  ? 

Can  you  see  by  the  softly  shimmering  flame, 
Can  you  see  to  read  the  musical  name 


HER    SECRET.  99 

Of  him  who  sits  in  graceful  state 
On  the  little  damask  tete-a-tete? 

Can  you  see  me  sitting  before  him  there, 
Sitting  within  the  easy-chair? 
Can  you  hear  the  laugh,  can  you  hear  the  jest, 
The  musical  laugh  of  my  handsome  guest  ? 

Is  it  unwise  to  paint  the  view 
In  colors  so  warm,  —  and  light  it  too  ? 
Will  somebody  claim  the  graceful  state 
On  the  little  damask  tete-a-tete  ? 

How  many  may  lose  by  claiming  that! 
For  many  a  handsome  guest  has  sat 


IOO  HER    SECRET. 

Beneath  the  shimmering  chandelier, 
While  the  easy-chair  was  standing  near. 

How  many  may  lose,  how  many  may  win ! 
Ah,  vanity  is  a  costly  sin ! 
For  the  one  I  mean  will  never  suppose 
That  for  him  the  wind  of  memory  blows. 

Then  what  if  I  think  of  you  once  in  a  while, 
With  a  little  blush  and  a  little  smile ; 
With  a  little  blush  that  comes  and  goes 
As  the  sweet,  sweet  wind  of  memory  blows  ! 


JENNY. 

LITTLE  Jenny,  pretty  Jenny, 
Jenny  with  the  perfect  eyes, 

Jenny  with  the  soft  silk  hair, 

And  the  red  mouth  puckered  wise. 

Little  Jenny,  pretty  Jenny, 

Jenny  with  her  charming  ways, 

Jenny  with  her  wooing  smiles, 
And  her  broken  R's  and  A's. 

Little  Jenny,  pretty  Jenny, 
Jenny  with  that  perfect  form, 


IO2  JENNY. 

Jenny  with  that  mingled  temper,  • 
Half  of  sunshine,  half  of  storm. 

Little  Jenny,  pretty  Jenny, 

Laughing  as  you  strive  to  catch  her, 
When  you  chase  her  round  the  room, — 

Ah!  what  baby  e'er  can  match  her? 

Little  Jenny,  Carrie's  Jenny; 

There  was  never  such  another 
As  this  baby,  save,  it  may  be, 

Listen,  Carrie, — Jenny's  mother. 

Little  Jenny,  matchless  Jenny, 

Sunshine  kiss  her,  winds  caress  her, 

Dark-browed  sorrow,  do  not  touch  her, 
Or,  if  touching,  touch  to  bless  her. 


TWO   VIEWS. 

"THE  world  is  old,  the  world  is  cold," 

She  very  coldly  said, 
"And  all  we  prize  beyond  us  lies 

Till  we  lie  with  the  dead. 

"  The  world  is  old,  the  world  is  cold ; 

A  thousand  lives  can  prove 
How  failures  cast  us  all  at  last 

Into  the  worldly  groove." 

A  thousand  lives  are  not  my  life, 
Nor  are  they  types  of  mine  ; 


IO4  TWO   VIEWS. 

Instead  of  cold,  the  world  is  gold, 
And  dazzles  with  its  shine. 


She  shook  her  head,  she  broke  her  thread, 
And  paused  to  count  the  stitches  ; 

And  still  she  told,  the  world  was  cold, 
And  colder  all  its  riches. 

And  still  I  hold  the  world  is  gold, 

And  golden  all  its  glory  ; 
And  still  she  sings  of  "  fleeting  things," 

That  dismal,  dreary  story. 

The  daisies  blow,  the  roses  grow, 
In  garden,  field,  and  wood, 


TWO    VIEWS.  IO5 

And  care  is  fleet,  where  youth  is  sweet, 
And  God  is  very  good. 

I  still  must  weave,  and  still  believe 
My  dreams  will  all  come  true ; 

For  hope  is  bright,  and  sorrow  light, 
Where  life  is  fresh  and  new. 


HAUNTED. 

You  ask  me  why  my  thoughts  assume 
Such  dark  significance  of  gloom, 
When,  sitting  in  the  chapel  there, 
I  list  the  sermon  and  the  prayer. 

If  you  could  summon  up  such  hosts 
Of  phantom  figures,  dreary  ghosts, 
That  come  and  take  their  seat  beside 
My  seat,  or  in  the  stillness  glide 

Along  the  purple-tinted  aisle, 

And  whisper  of  the  past,  the  while 


HAUNTED.  ID/ 

The  preacher  prays  his  solemn  prayer, 
You  would  not  wonder  at  me  there. 

If  you  could  hear  the  tones,  my  friend, 
That  with  the  singers'  voices  blend, 
Or  when  the  ^rgan  thunders  roll, — 
You  would  not  question  thus  my  soul. 

You  would  not  wonder  .that  I  turn 
From  church  and  chapel  with  so  stern 
A  sadness  on  my  outward  face, 
And  thus  refuse  your  gentle  grace. 


HESTER   BROWNE. 

O,  YOU  are  charming,  Hester  Browne, 
So  do  not,  every  time  you  pass 
The  little  Psyche  looking-glass, 

Find  some  disorder  in  your  gown  ! 

In  every  ringlet  of  your  hair, 
In  every  dimple  of  your  cheek, 
Whene'er  you  smile  or  smiling  speak, 

There  lurks  a  cruel,  charming  snare. 

There 's  not  a  motion  of  the  hand 
That  shows  a  grace  to  lure  and  win, 


HESTER   BROWNE.  IO9 

There's  not  a  coy,  coquettish  sin, 
That  Hester  does  not  understand. 

What  use  to  preach  of  "  better  things," 
And  tell  her  she  is  false  as  gay? 
Be  still,  and  let  her  have  her  day, 

And  count  her  lovers  on  her  rings. 

And  let  her  break  a  hundred  hearts, 
And  mend  them  with  a  glance  again  ; 
Be  sure  the  pleasure  heals  the  pain 

Of  little  Hester's  cruel  arts. 


DESTINY. 

JUST  a  door  between  us,  —  no  more, 

And  your  hand  on  the  bell, 
When  a  voice  inside  of  the  door 

Broke  the  spell. 

And  you  turned,  perhaps  with  a  sigh, 

From  the  small  garden  gate, 
And  I  never  knew  you  were  by 

Till  too  late. 

So  near,  so  near,  yet  so  far ! 
Just  a  thin  narrow  door 
Shut  between  us, — just  a  far 

Evermore ! 


DESTINY.  Ill 

And  now,  perhaps  with  a  sigh, 

Or  a  smile,  —  who  can  tell  ?  — 
I  think  what  we  missed,  you  and  I, 

For  that  bell. 

God  knew  best,  though  when  your  last  letter 

Told  the  story  to  me, 
For  a  time,  I  thought  I  knew  better, 

For  you  see 

I  wanted  what  there  was  denied, 
Were  it  a  weed  or  a  flower ; 
I  wanted  what  budded  and  died 

In  that  hour. 

And  though  I  look  back  on  that  season 

Of  friendship  platonic, 
And  laugh  at  the  rhyme  without  reason, 

Half  ironic ; 


112  DESTINY. 

And  though  time  has  brought  me  far  more 

Than  I  care  now  to  tell, 
I  sometimes  think  of  that  door 

And  that  bell ! 


LOSS   AND   GAIN. 

WHEN  the  baby  died,  we  said, 
With  a  sudden,  secret  dread, 
"  Death,  be  merciful,  and  pass  ; 
Leave  the  other."     But,  alas, 

While  we  watched  he  waited  there, 
One  foot  on  the  golden  stair, 
One  hand  beckoning  at  the  gate, 
Till  the  home  was  desolate. 

Friends  say,  it  is  better  so, 
Clothed  in  innocence  to  go  ; 

H 


114  LOSS     AND     GAIN. 

Say,  to  ease  your  parting  pain, 
That  your  loss  is  but  their  gain. 

Ah,  the  parents  think  of  this, 
But  remember  more  the  kiss 
From  the  little  rose-red  lips  ! 
And  the  print  of  finger-tips 

Left  upon  a  broken  toy 
Will  remind  them  how  the  boy 
And  his  sister  charmed  the  days 
With  their  pretty  winsome  ways. 

Only  time  can  give  relief 
To  the  weary,  lonesome  grief; 
God's  sweet  minister  of  pain 
Then  shall  sing  of  loss  and  gain. 


HOMELESS. 

O,  THE  wild,  wild  trouble  in  your  eye, 

Marghrita ! 
The  sad,  sad  trouble  that  doth  lie 

Beyond  the  reaching 
Of  all  preaching, 

Marghrita. 

Of  the  dark,  dark  days  you  spend, 
Marghrita,  — 

The  dreary,  lonesome  days  that  rend 
You  with  their  woe, 
What  do  they  know, 
Marghrita, 


Il6  HOMELESS. 

Who  stand  amid  the  flowers  of  life, 

Marghrita, 
And  have  no  knowledge  of  the  strife 

Which  leaves  its  trace 
Upon  your  face, 
Marghrita  ? 
No  matter  if  the  winds  blow  east  or  west, 

Marghrita ; 

They  have  pleasant  homes  wherein  to  rest, 
While  you  have  none 
Under  the  sun, 
Marghrita. 


LA   SIRENE. 

OVER  the  flagon  filled  to  the  brim 
She  sends  a  bewildering  glance  to  him. 

Over  the  sea  of  pink  foaming  wine 

He  reels  in  the  light  of  her  beauty  divine. 

Deeper  and  deeper  she  dreamily  dips, 

In  the  rose-tinted  wine,  her  rose-tinted  lips. 

While  over  the  glass  she  airily  laughs 

A  pledge  which  he  eagerly  catches  and  quaffs. 


IlS  LA   SIRENE. 

And  he  drinks  in  a  madness  wilder  than  wine, 
Through  her  smile  and  her  eyes'  bewildering  shine. 

He  drinks  in  delirium,  danger,  and  death, 

As  over  the  crystal  comes  floating  her  breath  ; 

As  over  the  flagon  of  rose-colored  bliss 
She  wickedly,  witchingly  wafts  him  a  kiss  ; 

Then,  laughing  a  laugh  derisive  and  sweet, 
She  is  gone  while  he  kneels  in  despair  at  her  feet. 


TYING  HER  BONNET  UNDER  HER 
CHIN. 

TYING  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  her  raven  ringlets  in ; 
But  not  alone  in  the  silken  snare 
Did  she  catch  her  lovely  floating  hair, 
For,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 

They  were  strolling  together  up  the  hill, 
Where  the  wind  comes  blowing  merry  and  chill 
And  it  blew  the  curls,  a  frolicsome  race, 
All  over  the  happy  peach-colored  face, 


120      TYING    HER   BONNET    UNDER   HER   CHIN. 

Till,  scolding  and  laughing,  she  tied  them  in, 
Under  her  beautiful  dimpled  chin. 

And  it  blew  a  color,  bright  as  the  bloom 
Of  the  pinkest  fuschia's  tossing  plume, 
All  over  the  cheeks  of  the  prettiest  girl 
That  ever  imprisoned  a  romping  curl, 
Or,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
Tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 

Steeper  and  steeper  grew  the  hill ; 
Madder,  merrier,  chillier  still 
The  western  wind  blew  down,  and  played 
The  wildest  tricks  with  the  little  maid, 
As,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 


TYING    HER    BONNET    UNDER    HER    CHIN.       121 

O  western  wind,  do  you  think  it  was  fair, 

To  play  such  tricks  with  her  floating  hair? 

To  gladly,  gleefully  do  your  best 

To  blow  her  against  the  young  man's  breast, 

Where  he  as  gladly  folded  her  in, 

And  kissed  her  mouth  and  her  dimpled  chin? 

Ah  !  Ellery  Vane,  you  little  thought, 
An  hour  ago,  when  you  besought 
This  country  lass  to  walk  with  you, 
After  the  sun  had  dried  the  dew, 
What  perilous  danger  you'd  be  in, 
As  she  tied  her  bonnet  under  her  chin  ! 


THAT   WALTZ    OF   VON   WEBER'S. 

GAYLY  and  gayly  rang  the  gay  music, 
The  blithe,  merry  music  of  harp  and  of  horn, 
The  mad,  merry  music,  that  set  us  a-dancing 
Till  over  the  midnight  came  stealing  the  morn. 

Down  the  great  hall  went  waving  the  banners, 
Waving  and  waving  their  red,  white,  and  blue, 
As  the  sweet  summer  wind  came  blowing  and 

blowing 
From    the    city's    great    gardens    asleep    in    the 

dew. 


THAT  WALTZ  OF  VON  WEBER  S.      123 

Under  the  flags,  as  they  floated  and  floated, 
Under  the  arches  and  arches  of  flowers, 
We  two  and  we  two  floated  and  floated 
Into  the  mystical  midnight  hours. 

And  just  as  the  dawn  came  stealing  and  stealing, 
The  last  of  those  wild  Weber  waltzes  began  ; 
I    can    hear   the   soft   notes    now  appealing  and 

pleading, 
And  I  catch  the  faint  scent  of  the  sandal-wood 

fan 

That  lay  in  your  hand,  your  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
As  down  the  great  hall,  away  and  away, 
All  under  the  flags  and  under  the  arches, 
We  danced  and  we  danced  till  the  dawn  of  the 
day. 


124  THAT    WALTZ    OF    VON    WEBER'S. 

But  why  should    I    dream    o'er   this    dreary   old 

ledger, 

In  this  counting-room  down  in  this  dingy  old  street, 
Of  that  night  or  that  morning,  just  there  at  the 

dawning, 
When  our  hearts  beat  in  time  to  our  fast-flying 

feet  ? 

What  is  it  that  brings  me  that  scene  of  enchant 
ment, 

So  fragrant  and  fresh  from  out  the  dead  years, 
That  just  for  a  moment  I  'd  swear  that  the  music 
Of  Weber's  wild  waltzes  were  still  in  my  ears  ? 

What  is  it,  indeed,  in  this  dusty  old  alley, 
That  brings  me  that  night  or  that  morning  in  June  ? 


THAT  WALTZ  OF  VON  WEBER S       125 

What  is  it,  indeed  ?  —  I  laugh  to  confess  it,  — 
A  hand-organ  grinding  a  creaking  old  tune  ! 


But  somewhere  or  other  I  caught  in  the  measure 
That  waltz  of  Von  Weber's,  and  back  it  all  came, 
That   night  or  that  morning,  just   there   at  the 

dawning, 
When  I  danced  the  last  dance  with  my  first  and 

last  flame. 

My  first  and  my  last !  but  who  would  believe  me 

If,  down  in  this  dusty  old  alley  to-day, 

'Twixt  the  talk  about   cotton,  the  markets,  and 

money, 
I  should  suddenly  turn  in  some  moment  and  say 


126  THAT   WALTZ    OF    VON    WEBER'S. 

That  one  memory  only  had  left  me  a  lonely 
And  gray-bearded  bachelor,  dreaming  of  Junes, 
Where  the   nights  and  the  mornings,  from  the 

dusk  to  the  dawnings, 
Seemed  set  to  the  rtfusic  of  Weber's  wild  tunes  ? 


1 


HALF   AN   HOUR. 

I  MET  her  last  year,  in  the  studio 

Of  Weymer,  in  the  Rue  de  Charente  ; 

She  came  in  with  cheeks  all  aglow 

From  the  wild  autumn  winds,  and  bent 

To  my  greetings  with  a  flow 

Of  light  murmured  words,  silver  sweet, 

Delicate,  flattering  phrases, 
Which  my  own  words  sprang  forth  to  meet, 

As  if  I  believed  in  her  praises, 
Dropped  with  a  smile  at  my  feet. 


128  HALF    AN    HOUR. 

Courtesy,  high-handed,  and  bred 

In  the  translucent  blood  of  her  veins  : 

Such  a  lady  !  who  can  flatter,  instead 
Of  your  flattering  her  for  your  pains, 

Without  a  change  of  her  cool  white  and  red. 

Saying,  "  I  Ve  heard  of  you  much  "  — 
Smiling  —  "and  glad  thus  to  meet"; 

While  her  hand's  tender  touch 
Brushed  my  own,  to  complete 

The  chaste  charm  :  call  it  such, 

For  I  knew  that  it  meant  nothing  more 
Than  the  gracious  refinement  of  art ; 

The  exquisite  odorous  core 
Of  a  flower,  not  its  heart. 

What  wanted  I  more  ? 


HALF   AN    HOUR. 

The  flower  itself  for  my  share  ? 

Well,  I  have  it  here  in  my  palm, 
A  rose  that  fell  from  her  hair 

Into  my  hand,  like  a  charm, 
Just  as  we  parted  there. 

And  half  smiling  I  took  it  away,  — 
Half  smiling,  but  was  I  in  jest  ? 

Well,  what  next  ?  shall  I  say 

I  have  worn  it  here  on  my  breast 

Since  that  red  autumn  day  ? 

Only  the  swift  short  half 

Of  a  long-drawn  hour, 
An  arch  phrase  or  two,  and  a  laugh 

What  is  the  power  ?  — 

Did  she  give  me  wine  to  quaff? 

6*  i 


130  HALF    AN    HOUR. 

For,  ever  I  'm  seeing  a  face, 

Like  a  face  in  a  delicate  dream. 

Larkspur  eyes  and  rose  lips  through  the  lace 
Of  a  veil  glide  and  gleam, 

Till  I  half  lose  the  trace. 

Then  a  turn  of  the  head  shows  such  hair  ! 

Black  hair  like  wet  silk, 
Breaking  loose  from  a  silken  snare, 

And  a  hand  white  as  milk 
Thrusting  it  back  without  care. 

More  than  a  year,  you  know, 

And  much  has  happened  since  then  ; 

The  world's  ebb-tide  and  flow, 
And  a  man's  life  with  men  ; 

But  I  'd  let  it  all  go 


HALF   AN    HOUR. 

For  the  swift  short  half 

Of  a  long-drawn  hour, 
An  arch  phrase  or  two,  and  a  laugh, 

And  the  possible  power 
To  sit  there  and  quaff 

That  fine  fairy  wine, 

Which  has  kept  its  sweet  spell, 
Kept  its  sparkle  and  shine, 

Down  a  year's  surge  and  swell, 
From  that  half-hour  of  mine. 

Of  mine  !  yes,  of  mine,  sweet  ! 

You've  met  millions  of  men, 
And  dropped  a  smile  at  their  feet  ; 

But  that  half-hour  was  mine  then, 
And  in  it  I  claim  you,  sweet. 


132  HALF   AN    HOUR. 

And  in  it  I  have  you  and  hold  you, 
Larkspur  eyes  and  blush  roses  ! 

And  in  it  I  clasp  you  and  fold  you, 
Where  this  rose  reposes. 

There,  my  passion  I  've  told  you  ! 


POLLY. 

WHO  's  this  coming  down  the  stairs, 

Putting  on  such  lofty  airs  ; 

With  that  hump  upon  her  back, 

And  her  little  heels  click,  clack  ? 

Such  a  funny  little  girl, 

With  a  funny  great  long  curl 

Hanging  from  a  mound  of  hair ; 

And  a  hat  way  back  in  the  air, 

Just  to  show  a  little  border 

Of  yellow  curls,  all  out  of  order. 

She's  a  silly  girl,  I  guess, 

I  'm  glad  it  is  n't  —     Why,  bless 


134  POLLY. 

My  soul  !  it  's  our  little  Polly 

Tricked  out  in  all  that  folly  ! 

Well,  I  declare,  I  never 

Was  so  beat ;  for  if  ever 

There  was  a  sensible  girl, 

I  thought  't  was  little  Polly  Earl. 

And  here  —     Well,  it  's  very  queer 

To  come  back,  after  a  year, 

And  find  my  Polly  changed  like  this, — 

A  hunched-up,  bunched-up,  furbelowed  miss, 

With  a  steeple  of  a  hat, 

And  her  hair  like  a  mat, 

It  's  so  frightfully  frowzled 

And  roughed  up  and  tousled  ! 

O  Polly,  Polly  !  —     Well,  my  dear, 

So  you  're  glad  grandfather  's  here  ? 


POLLY.  135 

And  I  confess  that  kiss 
Does  smack  of  the  Polly  I  miss,  — 
The  girl  with  the  soft,  smooth  hair, 
Instead  of  this  kinked-up  snare. 
What !  you  're  just  the  game  Polly, 
In  spite  of  all  this  folly  ? 
And  what  is  that  you  say 
About  your  grandmother's  day, 
That  you  guess  the  folly 
Has  n't  just  begun  ?—  O  Polly, 
If  you  could  only  have  seen 
Your  grandmother  at  eighteen  ! 
What  's  that  about  the  puffs 
And  the  stiffened-up  ruffs 
That  they  wore  in  the  time 
Of  your  grandmother's  prime  ? 


136  POLLY. 

And  the  big  buckram  sleeves 

That  stood  out  like  the  leaves 

Of  the  old-fashioned  tables  ; 

And  the  bonnets  big  as  gables, 

And  the  laced-up  waists  —     Why,  sho, 

Polly,  how  your  tongue  does  go  ! 

Little  girls  should  be  seen,  not  heard 

Quite  so  much,  Polly,  on  my  word. 

O,  I  'm  trying  to  get  away, 

Eh,  from  your  grandmother's  day, 

But  I  'm  not  to  escape 

Quite  so  easy  from  a  scrape  ? 

What,  you  expect  me  to  say 

That  your  grandmother's  day 

Was  as  foolish  as  this  ?  — 

Polly,  give  me  a  kiss  ; 


POLLY.  137 

I  'm  beaten,  I  see  — 

And  I  '11  agree,  I  '11  agree 

That  young  folks  find 

All  things  to  their  mind  ; 

And  in  your  grandmother's  time, 

When  I  too  was  in  my  prime, 

I  've  no  doubt,  Polly, 

I  looked  at  all  the  folly 

Connected  with  the  lasses 

Through  rose-colored  glasses, 

As  the  youths  of  to-day 

Look  at  you,  Polly,  eh  ? 

But  I  Ve  given  you  fair  warning 

How  older  folk  see ;  so,  Polly,  good  morning  ! 


BESS   AND    BEN. 

SUNNY  days,  and  sunny  days, 

And  all  day  long, 
Here  they  go,  and  there  they  go, 

In  and  out  the  throng. 

Here  they  go,  and  there  they  go, 
Up  and  down  the  street ; 

Benjie  grinding  out  the  tune, 
Bessie  singing  sweet. 

Singing  loud,  and  singing  low, 
Trilling  out  the  tune, 


BESS    AND    BEN.  139 

Not  as  Benjie  grinds  it  out, 
But  as  birds  in  June 

Lift  and  lift  their  voices  up 

Out  of  pure  delight ; 
Singing  loud,  and  singing  low, 

Morning,  noon,  and  night. 

What !  you  never  heard  our  Bess  ? 

Never  heard  her  sing 
"John  Brown's  soul  is  marching  on," 

And  "The  Lord  is  King"? 

Why,  where  Ve  you  lived,  I  wonder, 
Never  to  have  heard 


I4O  BESS   AND    BEN. 

Bessie,  with  her  tambourine, 
Singing  like  a  bird  ? 

Singing  up  and  down  the  street, 
Singing  high  and  low, 

Since  a  little  child  of  three, 
Twice  three  years  ago. 

It  is  twice  three  years,  and  more, 
Since  that  summer  day 

When  the  news  from  Gettysburg 
Told  how  Sergeant  May, 

Through  the  thickest  of  the  fight, 
Through  the  rush  and  roar 


BESS    AND    BEN. 

Of  the  shout  and  shot  and  shell, 
Held  the  flag  he  bore 

Firmly,  till  the  very  last, 
When  they  found  him  lying 

By  the  famous  old  stone-wall, 
In  the  twilight,  —  dying. 

Dying,  faltering  at  the  last, 

"  Little  Bess  and  Ben ! 
They'll  miss  their  father  sorely: 

Who'll  look  out  for  them  when  — " 

And  that  was  all,  — the  words  broke  off 
In  this  world,  for  the  other, 


142  BESS    AND    BEN. 

And  little  Bess  and  Ben  were  left 
With  neither  father,  mother. 

And  this  is  why  that  through  the  street, 

In  and  out  the  throng, 
Sunny  days  and  sunny  days, 

And  all  day  long, 

Here  they  go,  and  there  they  go, 

Up  and  down  the  street ; 
Benjie  grinding  out  the  tune, 

Bessie  singing  sweet. 


BLANCHE'S    CHATEAUX. 

BUILDING  castles  in  the  air, 
Spanish  castles,  fine  and  fair, 
Blanche  is  dreaming  in  her  chair  ; 
Keep  on  dreaming,  Blanche. 

Poverty  is  on  the  wall, 

And  its  shadows  downward  fall 

Drearily  upon  them  all, 


But  the  dreaming  Blanche. 


While  they  mourn  their  scanty  fare, 
And  their  daily  toil  and  care, 


144  BLANCHE'S  CHATEAUX. 

She  is  ever  dreaming  there  ; 

Keep  on  dreaming,  Blanche. 


While  they  chide  thee  in  disdain, 
For  thy  heedlessness  of  pain, 
Thou  art  having  all  the  gain, 
In  thy  dreaming,  Blanche. 

While  they  only  see  their  cot, 
Bounded  by  its  narrow  lot, 
Scant  domains  are  heeded  not 
By  the  dreaming  Blanche. 

She  is  wandering  far  away,  — 
Building  castles  grand  and  gay, — 


BLANCHE'S  CHATEAUX.  145 

Growing  grander  every  day  ; 

Keep  on  dreaming,  Blanche. 


Stately  mansions,  —  there  they  stand, 
In  Atlantis  fairy-land, 
By  delicious  breezes  fanned  ; 
Keep  on  dreaming,  Blanche. 

Ocean  surges  rise  and  fall 
'Neath  the  turrets  slim  and  tall, 
'Gainst  a  battlemented  wall, 
In  thy  dreaming,  Blanche. 

Where  the  summer  shadows  hide, 

On  the  sunny  southern  side, 

7  J 


146  BLANCHE'S  CHATEAUX. 


There  a  garden  stretches  wide, — 


There  is  dreaming  Blanche. 


Friends  of  rare  and  costly  mien, 
Such  as  we  have  never  seen, 
In  that  Paradise  serene, 

Walk  with  dreaming  Blanche. 

Blanche  is  queen  in  these  domains  ; 
Blanche  o'er  all  this  beauty  reigns, 
And  a  queenly  state  sustains; 
Keep  thy  dreaming,  Blanche. 

Though  they  tell  thee-how  unreal 
Are  these  visions,  and  ideal, 


BLANCHE  S    CHATEAUX.  147 

I  will  tell  thee  they  are  real, 
And  to  keep  on  dreaming. 

I  will  tell  thee,  for  I  know 
How  their  splendors  come  and  go, 
That  the  truest  life  we  know 
Is  in  dreaming,  Blanche. 

In  our  fair  Atlantis  land 
We  have  riches  at  command, 
Which  they  cannot  understand: 
Let  us  dream  forever. 


APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 

HITHER  and  thither  they  swung,  Madeline  Hays, — 
The  bloom-loaded  apple-tree  boughs, 
The  rose-scented  apple-tree  boughs, 
The  pink-tinted  apple-tree  boughs, — 

In  the  merry  May  days. 

Hither  and  thither  they  swung,  Madeline  Hays ; 
The  blossoms  and  you  together, 
Rose-tinted,  and  light  as  a  feather, 
All  in  the  merry  May  weather, 

My  rose-tinted  Madeline  Hays. 


APPLE-BLOSSOMS.  149 

Down  in  the  wet,  green  grass,  Madeline  Hays, 
Where  the  brown  bees  cluster  and  hover ; 
Down  in  the  cowslips  and  clover, 
With  the  apple-tree  blooms  sprinkled  over, 

I  awaited  you,  Madeline  Hays. 

Down  in  the  wet,  green  grass,  Madeline  Hays, 
Ankle-deep,  I  pleaded  and  flattered, 
While  the  blackbird  whistled  and  chattered, 
And  the  pink  blossoms  pelted  and  pattered, 

All  in  the  merry  May  days. 

"  Come  down,  come  down  to  me,  Madeline  Hays!" 

I  pleaded,  and  pleaded  in  vain; 

While  the  pink,  pelting  rain 

And  your  laugh  of  disdain 
Only  answered  me,  Madeline  Hays. 


I5O  APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 

"Come  down,  come  down  to  me,  Madeline  Hays!" 
I  pleaded,  and  flattered  once  more  ; 
And  you  laughed  in  my  face  as  before, 
Till  the  wind  blew  down  with  a  roar!  — 

What  happened  then,  Madeline  Hays  ? 

The  wind  blew  down  with  a  roar,  Madeline  Hays, 
Breaking  branches  and  boughs  in  the  race, 
Blowing  blossoms  and  buds  in  my  face  ; 
What  else  did  I  catch  and  embrace 

As  the  bough  broke,  Madeline  Hays  ? 

4 

Soft,  yellow  silk  hair,  Madeline  Hays, 
Unrolling  its  lovely  Greek  twist, 
Blowing  out  its  goldening  mist, — 
It  was  this  that  I  caught  first  and  kissed, 

My  bloom-blushing  Madeline  Hays ! 


APPLE-BLOSSOMS.  IS1 

Then  through  hair  all  a-dazzle,  Madeline  Hays, 
Eyes  and  mouth,  cheek  and  chin  too, 
Out  of  the  dazzle  came  glimmering  through  ; 
All  the  love  colors,  — red,  white,  and  blue,— 

What  could  a  man  do,  Madeline  Hays? 


IN   JUNE. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  roses  in  their  blowing, 
So  sweet  the  daffodils,  so  fair  to  see  ; 

So  blithe  and  gay  the  humming-bird  a-going 
From  flower  to  flower,  a-hunting  with  the  bee. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  calling  of  the  thrushes, 
The  calling,  cooing,  wooing,  everywhere ; 

So  sweet  the  water's  song  through  reeds  and  rushes, 
The  plover's  piping  note,  now  here,  now  there. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  from  off  the  fields  of  clover, 
The  west-wind  blowing,  blowing  up  the  hill ; 


IN   JUNE.  .  153 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  with  news  of  some  one's  lover, 
Fleet  footsteps,  ringing  nearer,  nearer  still. 

So  near,  so  near,  now  listen,  listen,  thrushes  ; 

Now  plover,  blackbird,  cease,  and  let  me  hear ; 
And,  water,  hush  your  song  through  reeds  and 
rushes, 

That  I  may  know  whose  lover  cometh  near. 

So  loud,  so  loud  the  thrushes  kept  their  calling, 
Plover  or  blackbird  never  heeding  me  ; 

So  loud  the  mill-stream  too  kept  fretting,  falling, 
O'er  bar  and  bank,  in  brawling,  boisterous  glee. 

So  loud,  so  loud ;  yet  blackbird,  thrush,  nor  plover, 

Nor  noisy  mill-stream,  in  its  fret  and  fall, 

7* 


154  IN  JUNE. 

Could  drown  the  voice,  the  low  voice  of  my  lover, 
My  lover  calling  through  the  thrushes'  call. 

"Come  down,  come  down!"  he  called,  and  straight 

the  thrushes 
From  mate  to  mate  sang  all  at  once,  "  Come 

down  ! " 
And  while  the  water  laughed  through  reeds  and 

rushes, 

The  blackbird  chirped,  the  plover  piped,  "  Come 
down  ! " 

Then  down  and  off,  and  through  the  fields  of  clover, 
I  followed,  followed,  at  my  lover's  call ; 

Listening  no  more  to  blackbird,  thrush,  or  plover, 
The  water's  laugh,  the  mill-stream's  fret  and  fall. 


ANOTHER   YEAR. 

"ANOTHER  year,"  she  said,  "another  year 

These  roses  I  have  watched  with  so  much  care, 

Have  watched  and  tended  without  pain  or  fear, 
Shall  bud  and  bloom  for  me  exceeding  fair, — 

Another  year,"  she  said,  "another  year." 

"  Another  year,"  she  said,  "  another  year, 

My  life,  perhaps,  may  bud  and  bloom  again, 

May  bud  and  bloom  like  these  red  roses  here, 
Unlike  them,  tended  with  regret  and  pain, — 

Another  year,  perhaps,  another  year. 


156  ANOTHER    YEAR. 

"  Another  year,  ah  yes,  another  year, 

When  bloom  my  roses,  all  my  life  shall  bloom  ; 

When  summer  comes,  my  summer  too  '11  be  here, 
And  I  shall  cease  to  wander  in  this  gloom, — 

Another  year,  ah  yes,  another  year. 

"For  ah,  another  year,  another  year, 

I  '11  set  my  life  in  richer,  stronger  soil, 
And  prune  the  weeds  away  that  creep  too  near, 
*  And  watch  and  tend  with  never-ceasing  toil, — 
Another  year,  ah  yes,  another  year." 

Another  year,  alas  !  another  year, 

The  roses  all  lay  withering  ere  their  prime, 
Poor  blighted  buds,  with  scanty  leaves  and  sere, 

Drooping  and  dying  long  before  their  time, — 
Another  year,  alas  !  another  year. 


ANOTHER    YEAR.  157 

And  ah,  another  year,  another  year, 

Low,  like  the  blighted  dying  buds,  she  lay, 

Whose  voice  had  prophesied  without  a  fear, 
Whose  hand  had  trimmed  the  rose-tree  day  by 
day, 

To  bloom  another  year,  another  year. 


SOME  DAY   OF   DAYS. 

SOME  day,  some  day  of  days,  threading  the  street 

With  idle,  heedless  pace, 

Unlocking  for  such  grace, 

I  shall  behold  your  face! 
Some  day,  some  day  of  days,  thus  may  we  meet. 

Perchance  the  sun  may  shine  from  skies  of  May, 

Or  winter's  icy  chill 

Touch  whitely  vale  and  hill. 

What  matter?     I  shall  thrill 
Through  every  vein  with  summer  on  that  day. 


SOME    DAY    OF    DAYS.  159 

Once  more  life's  perfect  youth  will  all  come  back, 

And  for  a  moment  there 

I  shall  stand  fresh  and  fair, 

And  drop  the  garment  care ; 
Once  more  my  perfect  youth  will  nothing  lack. 

I  shut  my  eyes  now,  thinking  how  'twill  be, — 

How  face  to  face  each  soul 

Will  slip  its  long  control, 

Forget  the  dismal  dole 
Of  dreary  Fate's  dark  separating  sea ; 

And  glance  to  glance,  and  hand  to  hand  in  greeting, 

The  past  with  all  its  fears, 

Its  silences  and  tears, 

Its  lonely,  yearning  years, 
Shall  vanish  in  the  moment  of  that  meeting. 


CECILY. 

"  O,  IF  my  love  would  come  to  me, 
Would  come  to  me  and  speak  to  me 
Out  of  these  shadows  dark  and  dree, 
My  heart  would  so  much  lighter  be, 
My  heart  would  so  much  lighter  be  ! " 
Sang  Cecily,  sad  Cecily. 

"  O,  if  my  love  would  come  to  me, 
And  say  the  words  he  said  to  me 
Another  day,  for  love  of  me, 
The  world  would  so  much  brighter  be, 


CECILY.  l6l 

The  world  so  much  brighter  be ! " 
Sang  fair,  deserted  Cecily. 

"  O,  if  my  love  would  come  to  me, 
And  hold  my  hands  and  look  at  me, 
The  while  he  softly  spoke  to  rne, 
My  life  would  so  much  brighter  be, 
My  life  would  so  much  brighter  be ! " 
Despairingly  sang  Cecily. 

"  But  silent  and  away  from  me, 
He  has  no  word  of  cheer  for  me, 
For  one  dark  day  he  doubted,  me, 
And  doubting  me,  grew  hard  to  me, 
And  doubting  me  grew  hard  to  me,"    - 
•  •:  Half  bitterly  sang  Cecily. 

K 


1 62  CECILY. 

"  But  O,  if  he  would  come  to  me, 
Just  for  a  little  while  to  me, 
Before  he  left  me,  he  should  see 
That  I  was  true  as  truth  could  be, 
That  I  was  true  as  truth  could  be  ! " 
Sang  tenderly  sweet  Cecily. 

"  O,  if  he  would  but  come  to  me 
For  long  enough  to  learn  of  me 
This  precious  truth,  and  say  to  me 
The  words  he  said  before  to  me, 
For  love  of  me,  for  love  of  me," 
Sang  Cecily,  fair  Cecily, 

"My  way  would  so  much  brighter  be, 
My  cross  would  so  much  lighter  be; 


CECILY.  163 

And  patiently  I  'd  wait  and  see 
Whatever  was  in  store  for  me, 
Whatever  was  in  store  for  me/' 

Sang  wistfully  poor  Cecily. 

"But  now  through  shadows  dark  and  dree 
He  will  not  help  me,  who  might  be 
A  rock  amidst  this  surging  sea, 
A  shield  between  the  world  and  me, 
A  shield  between  the  world  and  me/' 
Sang  tearfully  sad  Cecily. 

"And  all  I  ask  to  comfort  me, 
Is  that  he'll  come  once  more  to  me, 
And  say  the  words  he  said  to  me 
Another  day,  for  love  of  me, 


1 64  CECILY. 

Another  day,  for  love  of  me," 

Sang  pleadingly  sweet  Cecily. 

"  Yet  though  these  shadows  dark  and  dree 
Grow  dark  and  darker  yet  to  see, 
I  will  not  doubt,  as  he  doubts  me, 
But  still  believe  he  '11  come  to  me, 
But  still  believe  he'll  come  to  me!" 

With  sudden  cheer 

Sang  high  and  clear 

This  fond  and  faithful  Cecily. 


RIDING   DOWN. 

O,  DID  you  see  him  riding  down, 
And  riding  down,  while  all  the  town 
Came  out  to  see,  came  out  to  see, 
And  all  the  bells  rang  mad  with  glee  ? 

O,  did  you  hear  those  bells  ring  out, 
The  bells  ring  out,  the  people  shout, 
And  did  you  hear  that  cheer  on  cheer 
That  over  all  the  bells  rang  clear? 

And  did  you  see  the  waving  flags, 
The  fluttering  flags,  the  tattered  flags, 


l66  RIDING     DOWN. 

Red,  white,  and  blue,  shot  through  and  through, 
Baptized  with  battle's  deadly  dew  ? 


And  did  you  hear  the  drums'  gay  beat, 
The  drums'  gay  beat,  the  bugles  sweet, 
The  cymbals'  clash,  the  cannons'  crash, 
That  rent  the  sky  with  sound  and  flash  ? 

And  did  you  see  me  waiting  there, 
Just  waiting  there  and  watching  there, 
One  little  lass,  amid  the  mass 
That  pressed  to  see  the  hero  pass  ? 

And  did  you  see  him  smiling  down, 
And  smiling  down,  as  riding  down 


RIDING    DOWN.  1 67 

With  slowest  pace,  with  stately  grace, 
He  caught  the  vision  of  a  face,  — 


My  face  uplifted  red  and  white, 
Turned  red  and  white  with  sheer  delight, 
To  meet  the  eyes,  the  smiling  eyes, 
Outflashing  in  their  swift  surprise  ? 

O,  did  you  see  how  swift  it  came, 
How  swift  it  came,  like  sudden  flame, 
That  smile  to  me,  to  only  me, 
The  little  lass  who  blushed  to  see  ? 

And  at  the  windows  all  along, 
O  all  along,  a  lovely  throng 


l68  RIDING    DOWN. 

Of  faces  fair,  beyond  compare, 
Beamed  out  upon  him  riding  there ! 

Each  face  was  like  a  radiant  gem, 
A  sparkling  gem,  and  yet  for  them 
No  swift  smile  came,  like  sudden  flame, 

No  arrowy  glance  took  certain  aim. 

* 

He  turned  away  from  all  their  grace, 
From  all  that  grace  of  perfect  face, 
He  turned  to  me,  to  only  me, 
The  little  lass  who  blushed  to  see  ! 


SOMEBODY'S   HUMMING-BIRD. 

IN  gay  groves  once  you  sped 

On  glancing  wing, 
Or  dipped  your  gleaming  head 
In  many  a  spring, 
Dew-welling 
And  up-swelling 
From  roses  red. 

Or  in  some  garden  fair, 

Or  glen  remote, 
While  flitting  here  and  there, 

You  hummed  your  note 

8 


170  SOMEBODY'S  HUMMING-BIRD. 

Of  pleasure, 
For  the  measure 
Of  days  so  rare. 

But  on  no  bending  bough 

In  gay  green  grove, 
Or  flowery  garden  now, 
You  flit  and  rove, 
Sweet  comer 
Of  the  summer. 
Shall  I  tell  how 

Your  little  feet  find  rest, 
Your  wings  repose, 

Within  a  golden  nest, 
Where  neither  rose 


SOMEBODY'S  HUMMING-BIRD.  171 

Nor  lily, 

White  and  chilly, 
Hideth  your  breast  ? 

A  nest,  that's  like  a  throne 

Upon  a  bower, 
Where,  reigning  all  alone, 
Without  a  flower 
To  kiss  there, 
You  never  miss  there 
The  brightest  rose  that 's  blown. 

Where  fixt  and  fast  you  swing, 

Half  poised  for  flight, 
On  stirless,  heedless  wing, 

Night  after  night, 


172  SOMEBODY'S  HUMMING-BIRD. 

While  harpers  play, 
And  dancers  gay 
Through  merry  measures  swing. 

Through  merry  measures,  where 

A  girl's  face  glances 
Beneath  its  golden  hair, 
As  down  the  dances 
Her  twinkling  feet 
To  swift  tunes  beat, 
While  you  above  there,    ," 

O  ruby-throated  Hummer, 

In  your  bower, 
Forgetful  of  the  summer 

In  its  flower, 


SOMEBODY'S  HUMMING-BIRD.  173 

Caught  in  a  snare 
Of  golden  hair, 
Watch  each  new-comer, 

With  eyes  wide  and  unwinking 

In  their  brightness, 
And  little  head  unthinking 
Of  the  slightness 

Of  its  hold 
j  Upon  the  gold 
Gay  tresses,  overlinking 

Curl  on  curl,  round  a  face, 

Rising  fair, 
Like  a  lily  in  its  grace, 

Or  a  rare 


SOMEBODY S    HUMMING-BIRD. 

Blush  rose, 
When  it  blows 
From  the  green  bud's  embrace. 

But  rose  or  lily  rare, 

She  has  caught  you 
In  a  gay  golden  snare, 
And  has  taught  you, 
Little  Hummer, 
That  the  summer, 
Though  so  fair, 

May  spread  many  a  net 

For  unheeding 
Little  rovers,  who  forget 

Where  they  're  speeding, 


SOMEBODY'S  HUMMING-BIRD.  175 

Until,  lo  ! 
Ere  they  know, 
They  are  set 

Fast  forever  in  a  snare,  — 

Be  its  name 

Lily,  rose,  or  golden  hair, 
All  's  the  same. 

So,  gay  Hummers 
Of  the  summers 
Yet  to  come,  —  beware  ! 


SYLVIA'S   SONG. 

THE  days  are  sweet  and  long,  —  oh !  sweet  and 

long; 

All  day  I  sit  and  dream,  or  sing  the  song 
That  some  one  sang  for  me  one  summer  day, 
For  me,  to  me,  before  he  went  his  way. 

The  days  are  sweet  and  long,  —  oh !   sweet   and 

long; 

And  in  the  sun  I  sit,  and  sing  my  song: 
Some  day  he  will  come  back  who  went  away, 
And  sing  the  song  I  sing  from  day  to  day. 


SYLVIA'S  SONG.  177 

The  days  are  long,   but   sweet,  —  oh !    long,   but 

sweet ; 

Some  day  1 11  hear  the  music  of  his  feet 
Who  sang  for  me,  and  sang  my  heart  away, 
My  happy  heart, —  before  he  went  his  way. 

Some  day,  —  to-day,  perhaps, —  he  '11  come  to  me ; 
And  then  the  days,  so  long,  but  sweet  to  me, 
Will  lose  the  burden  of  "  So  long,  so  long !  " 
And  only  keep  the  sweet  of  all  the  song. 


8* 


THORNS. 

WHO  sees  the  thorns  beneath  the  crown, 

Upon  a  poet's  head  ? 
Who  knows  they  sometimes  sing  to  drown 

Some  horrid,  haunting  dread? 

Who  knows  what  fears  beset  their  way  ? 

Who  knows,  who  cares  indeed, 
So  sweetness  charms  within  the  lay, 

That  aching  temples  bleed  ? 

Who  knows  how  much  they  long  to  shrink 
Misfortune's  cruel  cup  ? 


THORNS. 

Who  knows  what  bitter  wine  they  drink, 
Who  drain  that  poison  up  ? 

Ah,  never  say  the  poet  writes 

The  sweeter  for  his  pain  ; 
'T  is  false !  the  dying  soldier  fights, 
A  bloody  field  to  gain. 


AND    A    LITTLE    CHILD    SHALL 
LEAD   THEM." 

WHERE  ?  into  the  trifles  of  life  ? 

Into  its  folly  and  sin  ? 
Into  its  madness  and  strife, 

Shall  the  little  child  lead  you  in? 

Into  jealousy,  envy,  and  hate, 
And  the  soul's  surest  wrong, 

Which  lies  in  that  bitter  estate, 

Shall  the  little  child  lead  you  along? 

Think  of  the  birthright  that's  yours! 
Yours,  whom  Christ  died  to  save  ! 


"AND  A  LITTLE  CHILD  SHALL  LEAD  THEM."  181 

Think  of  the  world  that  endures, 
Beyond  the  dead  and  the  grave  ! 

In  view  of  that  wonderful  land 
Where  your  inheritance  lies, 

In  view  of  a  little  child's  hand 
To  lead  you  on  to  the  prize, 

Think,  think  if  you  can  of  the  world's  purple  glory ! 

Of  its  jealousy,  envy,  and  hate, 
And  add  if  you  can  to  the  old,  wicked  story, 

In  view  of  that  splendid  estate ! 

In  view  of  the  child,  that  is  waiting  to  lead 
From  the  misery,  madness,  and  scorn, 

O,  add  if  you  can,  to  temples  that  bleed, 
Another  sharp,  cruel  thorn  ! 


WHAT   MAY   BE. 

WHEN  the  days  are  longer,  longer, 
And  the  sun  shines  stronger,  stronger, 
And  the  winds  cease  blowing,  blowing, 
And  the  winter's  chance  of  snowing 
Is  lost  in  springtime  weather  ; 

And  the  brooks  start  running,  running, 
And  the  bee  sits  sunning,  sunning, 
And  the  birds  come,  bringing,  bringing, 
Such  good  news  in  their  singing 
Of  love  and  springtime  weather ; 


WHAT    MAY   BE.  183 

It  may  be — -there's  no  knowing  — 
That  then,  when  buds  are  blowing, 
When  birds  are  greeting,  greeting, 
And  all  things  mating,  meeting, 
We  two  may  come  together, 
And  find  our  springtime  weather. 


CIRCE. 

You  hold  my  heart  in  your  slender  hands, 
In  your  cold,  your  cruel,  careless  hands. 
In  your  beautiful  hands,  fanned  by  a  breath 
Like  the  breath  of  the  rose,  it  is  dying  its  death ; 

In  your  beautiful  hands  with  their  glitter  of  rings, 
Each  ring  a  trophy  that  scornfully  sings 
Of  other  hearts  that  have  lain  like  mine 
On  your  cruelly  beautiful,  pitiless  shrine ; 

Of  other  hearts  that  have  gone  to  their  death, 
Swooned  to  sleep  by  that  sweet,  sweet  breath, 


ft 

CIRCE.  185 

That  breath  of  the  rose  that  comes  and  goes 
As  the  smiling,  beautiful  lips  unclose, 

When  night  after  night  down  dizzying  dances 
They  follow  and  follow  your  dazzling  glances, 
While  round  and  round  by  the  music  whirled, 
As  I  'd  follow  and  follow  you  over  the  world ! 

Then  hold  me  fast  in  your  slender  hands, 
In  your  cruelly  beautiful,  pitiless  hands ; 
Let  me  forever  be  dying  my  death, 
Swooned  to  sleep  by  that  sweet,  sweet  breath. 

Let  me  forever  be  whirling  there, 
Lost  in  a  trance  divinely  fair  ; 
Let  me  forever  be  stricken  and  slain, 
And  dying  with  this  delicious  pain  ! 


MY   LADY. 

HERE  she  comes,  —  my  lady,  —  so  fair  and  so  fine 
From  the  gold  of  her  hair  to  the  glitter  and  shine 
Of  her  Pompadour  silk  with  its  ruffles  of  lace, — 
A  wonderful  vision  of  fashion  and  grace. 

Here   she   comes,  —  my  lady,  —  drawing   on   the 

pink  gloves 
Which  I  know,  even  here,  have   the   scent   that 

she  loves ; 

And  soft,  as  she  moves  her  fingers  of  snow, 
I  catch  in  the  movement  the  sparkle  and  glow 


MY    LADY. 

Of   the    ring    that    I    gave    her,  — the    diamond 

solitaire 

That  marks  her  "my  lady,"  in  Vanity  Fair; 
My  lady,  —  my  jewel,  —  to  have  and  to  hold 
As  her  diamond  is  held,  —  in  a  setting  of  gold. 

My  lady,  —  my  jewel,  —  would  she  sparkle  and 
glow 

If  into  the  light  I  should  suddenly  go, 

And  stand  where  her  beautiful  eyes  would  dis 
cover, 

In  the  flash  of  a  moment,  the  eyes  of  her  lover  ? 

Would  she  turn   to   my  glance   as  the   diamond 

turns 
To  the  light  all  its  rays,  till  it  blushes  and  burns  ? 


I  88  MY   LADY. 

Should  I,  standing  thus,  in  that   moment,  —  her 

lover,  — 
Be  the  light,  all  the  light  of  her  soul  to  discover  ? 

Ah,  my  lady,  —  my  jewel,  —  so  fair  and  so  fine, 
Of  your  soul  I  have  had  little  token  or  sign  ; 
When  I  put  on  your  finger  that  diamond  solitaire, 
/  knew  I  was  buying  in    Vanity  Fair ! 


AND  now  I  sit  down  daily  with  a  face 
As  still  as  Death's,  and  keep  an  outward  grace 
Of  silence,  while  the  heart  within,  at  Fate, 
Clamors  and  frets  behind  its  iron  gate. 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 

THEY  chide  you  for  being  so  gay  ; 
You  have  reckless  spirits,  they  say, 
And  moods  like  an  April  day, 
Madeline. 

Reckless  and  flippant  and  light, 
I  heard  them  call  you  last  night, 
When  your  mirth  rose  to  its  height, 
Madeline. 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 

Reckless  and  flippant  and  light, 
I,  who  knew  you  aright, 
Knew  't  was  a  pitiful  slight, 
Madeline. 


For  I  knew  what  none  of  them  guessed, 
That,  if  your  heart  were  at  rest, 
Your  lips  would  be  slower  to  jest, 
Madeline. 


Then  let  them  reprove  as  they  may : 
If  it  eases  your  heart  to  be  gay, 
To  laugh  ever  so  light,  laugh  away, 
Madeline,  Madeline. 


OUT   OF   THE  WINDOW.* 

OUT  of  the  window  she  leaned,  and  laughed, 
A  girl's  laugh,  idle  and  foolish  and  sweet, — 

Foolish  and  idle,  it  dropped  like  a  call, 
Into  the  crowded,  noisy  street. 

Up  he  glanced  at  the  glancing  face, 

Who  had  caught  the  laugh  as  it  fluttered  and 
fell, 

And  eye  to  eye  for  a  moment  there 
They  held  each  other  as  if  by  a  spell. 


1 92  OUT    OF   THE   WINDOW. 

All  in  a  moment  passing  there, — 

And  into  her  idle,  empty  day, 
All  in  that  moment  something  new 

Suddenly  seemed  to  find  its  way. 

And  through  and  through  the  clamorous  hours 
That  made  his  clamorous  busy  day, 

A  girl's  laugh,  idle  and  foolish  and  sweet, 
Into  every  bargain  found  its  way. 

And  through  and  through  the  crowd  of  the  streets, 

At  every  window  in  passing  by, 
He  looked  a  moment,  and  seemed  to  see 

A  pair  of  eyes  like  the  morning  sky. 


Cambridge  :  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


1 


YB  13565 


M191888 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


